Chivalry
by SierraLaufeyson
Summary: Legends aren't born. They're forged. Londinium isn't a city that's kind to orphaned children. Though when an orphaned Arthur and Frida meet in the streets, they'll have the power to shape the history of England.
1. Epigraph

whσsσ pullєth σut thís swσrd σf thís stσnє αnd αnvíl ís ríghtwísє kíng вσrn σf αll єnglαnd

LONDINIUM was not a kind city. Despite the bustling port and numerous merchants that lined market streets and bridges, the people were suffering. Since Vortigern had ascended to the throne of Camelot, a shadow had fallen over the land. People walked the streets in quiet fear, always keeping their head down when one of the king's men passed them by, never once mentioning the late King Uther or his family.

Londinium was not a kind city. Especially to orphaned children. Some were sent to the North as labor, others employed by unsavory characters for their ability to go unnoticed. Though, on rare occasions, there would be someone willing to open up their home and life to care for a lone and frightened child.

Londinium was not a kind city. Though it happened by chance that within the same week an orphaned boy floated down the river in a boat covered by furs and a young orphaned girl came running down the streets with torn clothes and bloody feet. And each of them was given a chance to flourish.


	2. Chapter One

"INSPECTION!" The blackleg shouted through the storefront's door. The baker and his assistant looked at one another with a weary expression as they both wiped flour from their hands and made their way to the counter, as was routine.

"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" The baker asked. Edwyn was his name and over the course of twenty-some years, he had made a reputation for himself as an honest and hard worker. A pillar of a dying community.

Jack's Eye rounded the corner and entered the bakery with his hand resting on the hilt of a sword. "Search the back," he commanded and there came no resistance from neither the baker nor his young assistant as the guards rushed behind the counter and into the ally via the shop's back entrance.

This was commonplace, though. The blacklegs came looking for criminals and coffers that had managed to escape the king's taxes. Neither of those items was present in the bakery. "There was a scuffle in the market earlier," Jack's Eye explained, "one of the perpetrators got away with an arrow to the thigh." Edwyn digressed that there had been no unrest on his street that morning. It had been quiet, with the usual customers coming and going in the early hours.

A whiff of burning bread wafted through the air and immediately his assistant was sent into a panic. It was their busiest day of the week and they couldn't afford to let that much profit slip away, not with the way Vortigern's taxes were squeezing their already light purses.

When the blacklegs left, Edwyn found his young assistant attempting to wrap her hands, burned by the hot loaves of sourdough and pastries. They had been salvaged though, and now sat on the butchers' block to cool. The baker shook his head, frowning. "You must be more careful, Ida," he chided.

She bit down on her lips and flexed her burned fingers with a grimace. "I know, but the entire batch was going to burn!"

The old baker took her wrists into his hands, mindful of the blistering skin of her palms. "Burnt bread can be tossed in a pinch, Frida," he assured with a slight smile before looking down at her red hands, "but it takes longer for burnt skin to heal."

Ida leaned against the wooden counter, watching as Edwyn drizzled a sweet honey glaze over a batch of cooled sticky buns. The baker glanced up, but then slid one of the smaller pastries toward her. "For managing to save most of the day's wages." It was the oat and sourdough bread baked daily that brought in most of their earnings. She smiled and gave him a slight nod before picking up the deformed bun with a bandaged hand.

She worked the counter for the rest of the day, unable to mix and knead the dough with burned hands. When all the goods had been sold, asides from two loaves of bread and a handful of sweets, Edwyn gathered up what was left for weekly errands. "Here," the baker said, pressing a woven basket of bread and pastries into her bandaged hands, "take these around town."

The paths around the city had been ingrained in her muscles by now. She knew the handful of streets to avoid and the backways that led to an old widows apartments, to a new mother and her children, to a crippled elderly man. The king did not look after the people of Londinium so she and Edwyn made sure to look after them.

An arm wrapped around her waist. She would have screamed if it wasn't a common occurrence, but it was, and she knew the troublesome man that the arm belonged to. "Art!" She threw her hands up to her chest, steadying her now frantic breathing. Frida hated when he did that, she turned and scowled, almost having forgotten the empty basket that she had dropped.

Arthur gripped onto both her wrists and looked at the rugged bandages that were wrapped around her palms and fingers. "What've you done now?" He asked. There was concern in his eyes despite the mirth in his voice. He didn't give her time to respond, though. "Let me guess," he began, smirking almost, "the bread was burning." He bent down and picked up the basket.

Frida sighed and tugged her hands free of his grasp, trying to conceal the ratty linens with the sleeves of her dress. He worried too much about her when she was more than capable of taking care of herself. "Jack's Eye came barreling in looking for a common thief. We all lost track of the time." She eyed Arthur, knowing that he had half the blacklegs in the city in his pocket. "Edwyn couldn't afford to lose that much coin because of a folly."

He shook his head and draped his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get you properly patched up, I think Lu still has some of that salve mixed up."

The only hint of color on the bleak stone wall was the bright red doors and stained red lanterns on either side. At this early hour of the evening, most the girls were unoccupied with customers and instead they gossiped about word on the street while braiding and brushing one another's hair. "Ida, darling!"

She waved to them with one of her bandaged hands. Arthur shook his head, amused, and gently nudge Ida toward the stairs. "I've got to get her patched up, sorry girls." He led her straight up to his small room and motioned toward the small table in the corner.

Arthur knelt before her, laying out clean linens and opening the tin of salve. It smelled sweet, like honey and roses. "You're too good to me, Art," Ida muttered as she unbound the soiled bandages. She flinched when he brushed the worst of the burns, but Arthur took her discomfort as a sign of his own inadequacy. "I know," he said looking up to meet her gaze, "my hands are rough."

She shook her head, "It's not that." Truthfully, her hands were just as rough as his, working in a bakery had given resulted in a fair share of scars. Arthur wrapped the linen around her fingers and palm, securing it in place with a small knot. He repeated the process on her left hand in mindful silence.

When he finished, he held onto her hand for a moment. "Thank you," Frida muttered in response, still feeling foolish that she had tried to save the bread with her bare hands. Arthur nodded, rising to his feet to return the armful of supplies back to their places.

Frida stood too, smoothing down the front of her apron and shift. "I should be getting back." She moved to gather up her empty basket when Arthur gripped onto her wrist, not ready to see her go. He pointed over his shoulder at the old chess game tucked away in a corner. "Want to have a go?"

Between them was chess board, neatly set with all the small, chipped, wooden pieces. Arthur steepled his fingers and looked down at the board with deep contemplation. "What if I win?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ida shook her head, stifling a bout of laughter. "You never win." If by pure luck alone, she had always been able to tell what his next move was and so he had yet to win one of their games. She doubted this time it would be any different. He always improved and had picked up a couple tricks, but Frida was always one step ahead.

"True," Arthur shrugged, "maybe I just need some motivation."

She sighed and leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms. "If you win?" She inquired. He tapped his chin as if in deep thought but then smirked. "You have to give me a fat kiss and pretend to like it."

Frida laughed. "And if I win you never say anything like that again," she countered, to which he agreed and so their game began. Time passed and pawns were removed from the board in a systematic way. Bishops and rooks joined the pile next until all that was left were five pieces between the two. Arthur had his queen and king, Frida had those two and a knight remaining.

Thinking he had the upper hand, Arthur moved his queen in place as to check her king on her next turn, thinking that she would move the knight next. Frida smiled and slid her queen piece down the board. "Ha," she smirked, moving her queen in place to prevent his checkmate, "the Queen saves the King."


	3. Chapter Two

Frida lunged toward the small knife she kept hidden in the drawer of her night-table when the window to her one-room apartments slid up. She dropped the dagger upon seeing who the would-be intruder was. Arthur clambered through the small window and instantly flopped down to the floor, holding his side and groaning.

He looked up at her with a cheeky grin, but was met with a deep frown on her behalf. His cheek was bruised and along his forearm was a long, thin cut that still bled. Ida turned, digging around in the few cabinets that lined the wall furthest from the door. "Why are you always bloody when you come bursting into my rooms this late?" She grumbled.

Arthur didn't respond, only sat up on the creaking floorboards above the bakery. "You know Lucy would take care of you." She sat a clean bandage and a jar of ointment on the night-table and returned to fetch a clean cloth from the wash basin.

"Aye," he shrugged, "but I don't want her to worry." Ida turned back to him with a deep scowl. "And you don't worry me?" His smile had a puerile quality that made her roll her eyes and point toward the crumpled sheets on her bed. He grunted and pulled himself over to the featherbed pallet.

Frida rolled up the sleeve of his burgundy tunic. It was a fine shade to try to hide the color of blood. She wrung water from a scrap piece of fabric and lay it over the cut. A moment later, she wiped it clean, not missing the slight wince he gave. Arthur remained quiet, watching her orderly actions only to realize that he really did only come barging into her room when he was bruised and bloodied. That was something he would have to change.

The salve she used was sticky and smelled of mint, sage, honey, with the subtleties of lavender. "What'd you do this time?" She asked, dappling the salve over the slash.

Ida cut her eyes up at him, waiting for a response. "Caught someone sniffing where they weren't supposed to." That didn't tell her how his arm had managed to be slashed, or why there was a bruise beginning to form around his left eye. She rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me."

* * *

Ida curled into her small bed in the apartments above the bakery. It was a cold night. A restless night, filled with distant memories of the past, or maybe they were just dreams. She could hardly tell them apart any longer.

The village was on fire, men were raiding the houses in search of mages and practitioners of the dark arts. Slaughtering those who raised arms against them and caging those who they thought were marked by the darkness.

She was only five and crying as her mother ushered both her and her sister into the woods. "You must keep quiet, child." Her mother had meant that in two ways, keep quiet to avoid drawing attention and to always go unnoticed, "the world cannot know." Their kind was being hunted after what had occurred with Mordred in Camelot and the rise of Vortigern.

The two girls' mother bade them stay hidden in the woods. She would return after seeing that her own sister was safe in the chaos. But the youngest girl did not listen. "Mama!" The girl cried, running after her with tear stained cheeks, hands alight with a bright pure energy.

"Hush, Frida," she told the girl in a manner that was both stern and loving, a tone only a mother could use. The mother closed both of her daughter's hands, staying the light. "Eydís will take care of you." Her sister laid her hand on her shoulder and squeezed, "she will help you control it," her mother reassured. With that, she was gone and the two girls were running into the woods, deeper and deeper, away from the fire, away from their home, away from the screams.

Arcanist had been the word the Kingsmen had used before setting their village and homes to the torch. Their mother had been called that word before they strung her up by the neck and set a fire beneath her feet. And Arcanists were what the two young girls were.

She and sister were running in the woods by the light a full moon, only when she tripped on a root and stumbled Ida jolted upright in the dark of the night. She was still in her bed, not in the woods. But a cold sweat was on her brow. Her sleeping mind was trying to tell her something, remind her of who she was, what she was. Yet all it gave her were terrible dreams of a family that no longer existed, of a girl that had died years ago.

She brought her hand up to wipe away the sweat but paused in shock and fear. Emanating from her fingertips was a pure, bright white light. She didn't want this power, this ability. It had brought nothing but death and despair into her life. Frightened, she buried her hands beneath the sheets and blankets, closed her eyes, and willed herself to wake up from the nightmare.

But she couldn't. It wasn't a dream. It was her reality. One that she needed to embrace.

* * *

She walked down the streets at a brisk pace, moving through the crowd with a woven basket and hooded cloak. Back Lack and Wet Stick appeared, flanking her sides. Ida cut her eyes over at Wet Stick, knowing that Arthur couldn't have been far. The three of them were rarely separated while out in the city. With a slight frown, she pushed back the hood of the cloak. Her plans of secrecy had been spoiled. "Now what're you three up to?" She asked, looking at her sides.

Back Lack shrugged, it was business as usual for them, though they had run into a bit of trouble earlier. "Nothin'," he answered.

Frida shook her head. "Liars," is what she called them, and neither of them tried to tell her otherwise. The Boss didn't want her to get tangled up in their affairs in case something went sour one day. It wouldn't be right for her to be caught up in their mess, so they never told her exactly what occurred and that frustrated her to no end. Even Lucy and the girls were in on it.

"What're you up to?" Wet Stick asked in return, reaching down to look at the contents of the basket. Ida jerked it away from him with a scolding glare and Wet Stick raised his hands in surrender. "I'm taking the day old bread to the orphanage if you must know," she told them in a curt tone. There had always been a soft spot in her heart for orphans, bastards, and cripples, and Londinium had no shortages of them.

The figure that approached the group from one of the alleyways wore a fresh white doublet with gold and leather stitching. It was a wonder that it hadn't been covered in filth yet. "Why so secretive then?" Arthur asked.

"Because if the blacklegs find out then we will be punished that there was no tax to go to the King," she started, wagging a finger in front of his face, "and then Edwyn's reputation would be ruined on my account." The King's tax laws had tightened in the last years, every bit of it went to building a bloody tower aside the castle.

"I could take it," Arthur offered, shrugging as she passed him. Frida looked over her shoulder with slitted eyes. "You get into enough trouble as it is," she accused.

He couldn't argue with that statement, but he'd always managed his way out of trouble more often than naught. "Yeah," Art agreed, a boyish smirk playing on his lips as he caught up with her, "but I have some connections, you see."

"I know," she sighed with a quick roll of the eyes, "you have Jack's Eye and the lot of them in your coffer." Frida had seen the stores of coin and treasure he had hidden in backrooms and behind loose planks in the brothel. He distributed the wealth around to the girls and those that needed it most, but at the end of the day, he always had a few coins left in his purse. Arthur crossed his arms. "What're you talkin' about?"

"Don't be coy Art," Ida laughed, "if you really want to do something useful, tell them not to come barreling into my bakery every week." She smiled up at Arthur and patted his cheek as she continued on her way.


	4. Chapter Three

"Dis?" She clambered through the dark forest, fearful that she had lost her sister. The eldest girl turned and gripped onto her sister's shoulders. "I'm here, Ida," she answered, letting a small light coalesce within her palm which illuminated her little sister's face, with scratched cheeks and red, teary eyes.

"What're we goin' to do?" Frida asked, bottom lip trembling. It had been a week since they had seen their mother hang and burn. A week of running. A week of not knowing if they would live to see the next day. Eydís smiled or at least tried to. She had to be the strong one, for her little sister.

"What mother told us to do. Stick together." But there was rustling in the woods and the sound of dogs and shouting men. They were running out of time again. Eydís knelt in front of her sister and frowned at the light that began to gather at her fingertips, it would be a dead giveaway of their location.

The girl gripped onto her little sister's hands, trying not to let her see the fear in her dark eyes. "I need you to listen to me." Frida nodded. "Run," Eydís pushed Frida away from her, but the girl stood frozen, watching her sister and the lanterns that were moving closer to them in the woods. "Frida, run!" She turned and ran, stumbling over roots and briars.

By the time she had reached Londinium her dress was in tatters and her feet were bruised and bloody. Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder clapped in response. Heavy drops of rain began falling. They masked the dried tears on her dirty cheeks. She fell forward into the mud and was half tempted to stay there, but somewhere nearby a door was kicked open and several soldiers came stomping out. Though she was young, she knew that men who wore those uniforms were not her friends.

Frida stayed in the shadows, finding an alley with an overhang. The light that had formed in her hands was fading. The energy was leaving her. She couldn't go on, at least not tonight. Instead, she curled up beneath the awning and did not even wake when the old baker found her in the storm and took her into his shop and home.

* * *

Arthur's head popped into her window, making her drop the old book she had been reading. Frida cursed him for not just using the door like a civilized being. "Go bother someone else," came her insincere lament.

He pulled himself the rest of the way up and fell to the floor with a loud groan and thud, but still managed a bright smile. Frida looked down at him, frowning. She should have known as soon as she knew it was him coming through her window at this hour. "You're bleeding," she deadpanned, unamused.

Arthur looked down at his arm and saw the blood welling up in a handful of spots along the cut. "Just a scratch," he shrugged, at least this time it would be partially true. "Got into a bit of a scuffle with a couple of louts on the docks," he explained, sitting up, as she busied herself with retrieving a wet linen cloth.

Frida gripped onto his wrist and pulled him up, before pushing him toward the small table tucked away in the corner of her room. She rolled up the sleeve of his white doublet and dappled away the blood, pleased to see that it didn't need a salve or a real bandage. Just a good cleaning and pressure would do.

"I can't have you ruining your pretty clothes," she remarked, and that earned her a roll of the eyes and a slight smirk. With the cloth held against his arm, Frida poured him a glass of wine and pushed it across the splintering wooden surface. Arthur brought it closer to him and looked down into the dark liquid, smiling. "How is it you always know exactly what I need?"

Ida looked down at her hands. "Well I'm not a mage," she laughed at her own poor joke, "if that's what you're wondering."

Arthur shook his head and finished the cup before running his hand through his sweaty hair with a deep sigh. "There's one more thing," he began and she found that she didn't like the start of that sentence or the tone of his voice, "I may need to lay low for the night and was hoping to stay here?"

Frida leaned back and crossed her arm. "What if I say no?" She deadpanned. His face fell, but then she cracked a small smile and he did too. "I'm only messing, Art. I'll get some extra blankets down."

Beside her cot, they spread out the extra blankets, balling one of them up to serve as a pillow. It wouldn't be as soft as his feather bed, he gladly accepted it. Frida leaned over the edge of her bed, looking down at him, suspicious again. "It was more than a scuffle if you didn't want to chance going back to the brothel."

He folded his hands behind his head, yawning. "It was between some blacklegs and I knew Jack's Eye would come looking for me. So long as he can't find me tonight, it'll all be forgotten in the morning." The brothel would have been the first place he went looking, but in the small apartments above Edwyn's bakery? Jack's Eye would have never been able to guess that this was his hideout.

"You hope," she countered, brow raised in challenge. Arthur chuckled and shook his head, "I know," he retorted, having been in this sort of situation a time or two before. Frida rolled her eyes and leaned toward her bedside table, blowing out the candle with a single puff of air.

* * *

Before the crack of dawn, she was in the bakery below, tending to the ovens and sitting aside dough that needed to rest and rise. Arthur had still been sleeping when she left. In the meantime, she worked on glazes for the sweetcakes and buns and gathered the seasonings and spices that topped more savory bread. At this point in her life, everything in the bakery was a mixture of routine and memory.

She had lost track of time, so when her uninvited guest came bustling down the stairs, it ruined the piece of dough she had rolled out to be a pretzel. "Now you decide to use the door?!" Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned up against the island countertop.

Frida repaired the piece of dough and twisted it back into shape, dipping it in a brine before setting it back down to a sheet pan. "Need any help?" He asked, watching as she pressed a stamp into the dough. The seal of the bakery was a dragon clasping a sprig of rosemary and wooden spoon in its talons.

Another pretzel was dipped into the brine and laid out to rest again. "I think I can manage," Ida responded, wiping her damp fingertips on a threadbare apron. Arthur looked around the small kitchen and toward the storefront, noting that the head baker was missing. "All by yourself?" He asked again, poking at the pile of soft dough that she pulled uniform pieces off of.

"Edwyn wasn't feeling well by the time we closed up yesterday," she explained. It would just be her today in the shop and since most of the goods still had to be baked, she hoped people didn't start coming in until the afternoon. Frida glanced up at Arthur, thinking that it was time he went on his way, lest Wet Stick and Back Lack send the blacklegs looking for him. "Won't you be missed?"

"Eh," Arthur shrugged, "they'll get over it." He pushed up his sleeves and reached toward the pile of dough, pulling off a piece to begin rolling on the floured block, "besides, I owe you for letting me stay the night."


	5. Chapter Four

After a week, Edwyn had recovered from his illness. In turn for Frida having kept the bakery open on her own, he told her to take a day for herself. It was well deserved.

Her nose was tucked away in a book, not paying attention to her surroundings or the man that was scrambling into her open window. The floorboards creaked with his weight, but Frida didn't seem to notice. "That's a long read," Art noted, looking down at the sketches and handwritten script.

Ida almost screamed. "Arthur!" She shrieked, snapping the heavy tome shut. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest. "Don't do that," Frida chided, breathless. He grinned.

"Cosmos of Light," he repeated the title as he sank down on the cushion beside her. "Sounds boring," he mused, leaning back on the wall with his arms folded behind his head, long legs outstretched. "Tell me about it."

Opening the book to the page she had been on, Frida skimmed over the explanation and steps for light projection. She glanced over at her unexpected guest, his head was tilted up, eyes closed. "It's a manuscript for simple spells."

It had taken Cassius months to find a surviving copy. Most had been burned when the Arcanists and mages were slaughtered. A preventative measure to keep people from wondering, to keep them from discovering hidden secrets and powers. Arthur popped one of his eyes opened. "You're not a witch, are you?" It was meant to be amusing.

"No," she responded, but he could tell she was hiding something. Something that he would manage to learn one way or another. Frida sighed, looking down at her hands, contemplating what to say next. There was no point in trying to lie to him. He had always told her she was a terrible liar. "Can you keep a secret?" Ida quickly glanced up at Arthur and felt something churn deep in her gut.

He reached for her trembling hand. "You know I can," Art answered.

"I'm an Arcanist," she whispered, still not meeting his heavy gaze.

"Arcanist?" Arthur shook his head. That couldn't be possible. All the Mages and Arcanists had been hunted down and killed. "They've been gone for years," he uttered.

"My mother, my sister." Ida held up her hand and allowed a ball of effervescing light to coalesce in her palm _. Me_.Arthur's eyes widened. "I dream of them-" the ball of light jumped into her other hand "-of my mother's screams and the crackling of the fire. Of my sister being captured and screaming for me to run." Nobody except for her had known the truth until now. It was both terrifying and relieving.

"Ida," Arthur spoke her name with a newfound softness. "Look at me." She didn't raise her eyes, so he slipped both his hands up to her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. There was something she had never seen in his eyes before, but she couldn't name what it was that was hidden behind the determination. "I'll protect you," he said. She believed him, there was no reason not to.

* * *

Edwyn had sent her into the market with a list of spices, fruits, and toppings to retrieve for the bakery. They had recently been hired by a noble lord to provide a cake for his daughter's nameday celebration and the exotic requests had meant bartering for commodities that were rare in Londinium.

Saffron and vanilla were among the purchases in her basket, along with a couple of day-old sweets that she would oft give to young children that were out on the streets. A young boy ran toward her, half hiding behind her skirts and aprons. She turned with a frown. "That you Blue?"

Black Lack's son stayed quiet until a group of older boys and a handful of Blacklegs passed by. Frida's frown deepened. The boy undoubtedly had a penchant for getting himself into trouble. She expected nothing less from a boy who spent so much time around Arthur and his gang, though. She reached into her basket and pulled out the last of a frosted lemon cake.

"Here," Ida said, offering Blue the pastry. He immediately took a large bite from it with a smile. With another two bites, the boy finished it off and wiped his paint-stained hands on his pants. "Hold up," Frida reprimanded, gripping onto his shirt-collar before he could run off and disappear into the crowds. "What's got you so excited anyway?"

Blue's eyes widened. She hadn't heard the news. "The Sword in the Stone!" He exclaimed. "It's revealed itself. The born king is comin' back." That kind of talk could get you thrown into prison or worse if the wrong people heard. Luckily, most of the blacklegs were stationed around the perimeter of the market.

"Of course," she rolled her eyes. There had been a lot of talk of the born king in the past couple of days. Of young men wishing to try their luck only to return to the city with a new brand on their wrists. "If that's the case, then I'm the Queen of Camelot." Blue scrunched his face up and stuck his tongue out at her.

Frida nudged his shoulder. "Now run along and try to stay out of trouble."

* * *

As usual, Frida entered the brothel through the back alleyway. That entrance was on the second floor near Art's room. Away from where any business transactions were performed. The upstairs rooms were empty though. "Lu?" Frida called, turning the corner at the bottom of the steps to enter the small kitchen and dining room.

"Ida!" The woman exclaimed, turning around with a hand still clutching her chest. The glass that was in her hand fell to the floor and shattered. Frida frowned when she noticed the dark bruises around Lucy's eye and down her cheek. It was clear that she was distraught, most of the girls seemed to be.

"Are you all right?" Ida asked, kneeling next to the woman and gathered up the broken pieces of glass in her apron. Lu glanced up and nodded. "Don't worry about me," she remarked, "it's all been sorted out."

"Have you seen Art?" It'd been two days since she last saw him. The room went silent, even the chatter that had persisted among the girls stopped.

Lucy took the shard of glass that remained in Ida's hand. "You didn't hear?" News about Arthur usually traveled through the city like wildfire. Lu drew in a long, slow breath. "The blacklegs got him," she started. That made the color drain from Frida's rosy cheeks. "Sent him off with half the men in town to try to pull that bloody sword out of a rock."

The words didn't seem to fully register. That meant Blue had been telling her the truth, the Sword in the Stone had revealed itself more than twenty years since Uther Pendragon's death. "He'll be back though," Lucy assured her, but Ida doubted that Arthur would be returning to Londinium any time soon.

Suddenly, she remembered the reason she had come to the bridge at this hour to begin with. The stone pan was still warm to the touch and in the reddish light, the caramelized sugar on the crust glistened like tiny jewels. It was a dewberry pie. One of Art's favorite things that she and Edwyn made.

"Someone brought a barrel of dewberries into the bakery and I made him a pie with the leftovers." Frida sat the pie down in the center of the sitting room and brought a copper server out of her basket. "But there's no point in letting it go to waste," she noted, beginning to cut into the flaky crust and sticky filling. Only one piece had been cut when there came three harsh knocks in succession.

"Who's knocking at this hour?" One of the girls asked. Frida thought it was Katrina. Lucy stood from the table as the doors of the brothel were thrown open with blacklegs storming in, swords drawn.


	6. Chapter Five

The boy that ran past and knocked her to the cobbled street was moving in a blur. "Hey!" Frida shouted, dropping her basket of sweets to chase after him. The boy had lost his footing and stumbled to the ground too. "Watch where you're going!" She snapped, hands resting on straight hips.

He hopped to his feet and puffed out his chest in defiance. "You gone make me?"

She shook her head. "No," Frida started, looking back over her shoulder to the group of older looking boys that were searching the crowded market for someone in particular. If her judgment was right, they were hunting for the boy who had knocked her down. "But they might."

His eye was already black and blue, his lip busted, and then true fear flashed across his face when he saw them in the crowd. Ida scooped up her basket and grabbed the boy's sleeve. "C'mon." He followed her without question through narrow streets into the alleyway behind the bakery.

"Who're you?" The boy asked, rubbing at the scrape on his elbow. Blood was staining his light blue tunic. Lucy wouldn't be happy about that. It was a new tunic. "I'm Frida," the girl responded, holding out her hand.

"Arthur," he supplemented, shaking her hand. She smiled and dug around in her small basket, pulling out a wrapped sticky bun that was meant to be her snack for running errands. Arthur looked like he needed it more though, especially given the fresh bruises. The boy took a large bite out of it and said his thanks with a full mouth.

Frida was about to ask if he wanted another, but the group from the market passed by the alley with a pair of blackleg guards. Arthur stashed the remaining half of the sweet in his pocket. "I gotta go!" He told her before running back down the alley and into the street, in the opposite direction the other group had gone.

* * *

She had been dipping rolls into a sweet icing when she heard Edwyn at the counter scolding someone. Frida poked her head out and saw that it was the boy she'd met in the market a few weeks back. He was pointing at a sticky bun, but the baker didn't believe it when he claimed to have coin. "I can pay, sir, promise."

Frida stepped onto the short stool behind the display. Arthur glanced up with a snaggletooth smile and stopped digging around in his small coin purse. "Ida!"

Edwyn looked between her and the boy, confused. "You know this boy?" She nodded and hopped off the stool, making her a foot shorter.

The baker looked down at his adopted child and felt a sudden pang of guilt that he had put her to helping him instead of letting her roam the streets and have proper lessons. He picked her small cloak off a hook and handed it to her. "Don't stay out after sundown, Ida."

"I won't!" She promised. Then he gave each of them a pastry and sent them out the shop's door.

* * *

She had lost track of how old they were then, all she knew was that it had earned her Arthur's friendship and his nettlesome pack of friends.

The rocking of the boat stirred her from the memories. They had captured her in the raid of the brothel. Had bound her hands with rope and spat at her feet, calling her a whore. Had pushed her and pulled her hair like an animal. At the moment, she'd trade everything to return to those simpler times.

Lucy managed her way across the boat and took Ida's manacled hands on the riverboat, trying her best to console her. Someone as caring and selfless as Frida didn't deserve to be caught up in this mess. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The night sky gave way to dawn as the castle came into view. The boat stopped at the docks, where they were unloaded and escorted to the front of the castle with knives in their backs and blacklegs at their sides. It seemed out of place that they were allowed to walk the immaculate halls with great paintings and tapestries. They were prisoners of the crown, not guests.

A cold voice echoed off the walls. Vortigern stood with his squire boys as they laced up his ceremonial armor and polished the tarnished crown of Camelot. Then there was Arthur, bound and restrained. Anger raced through his blood when he saw his girls being led forward.

"I understand that your actions were very noble, defending this whore's honor." The blackleg commander drew Lucy out of the group and forced her onto her knees, hand wound tightly in her hair. Frida stepped forward, seeking to pull her back, but it was too late. The man unsheathed a dagger and pressed it against Lucy's throat. "How unfortunate it was at the expense of my Viking guests," Vortigern continued.

Frida looked between Lucy and Arthur, frightened. When his gaze found her in the group something other than anger and determination overcame his expression. He tugged on the ropes that bound his hands, stepping toward the king until two guards pulled him back.

"When your head rolls to me, the legend you've fast become will just as quickly end and add to the reverence of my name." Vortigern looked in Arthur's direction. "And for this, I salute you." The King looked back over his shoulder and nodded to the guard that held Lucy hostage.

Time seemed to slow as the blade was drug over her throat. The blood that ran down her neck and stained the pale material of her dress didn't seem real. "NO!" Arthur's scream mixed with those of the girls' that surrounded Frida. He rushed forward, but was pulled back and subdued.

The blackleg let Lucy's body slump to the polished floor. Blood still seeped from her open neck, pooling around her head on the polished floor.

Vortigern looked at the group of whores and back to Arthur, motioning for his squires to continue dressing him. "The rest of them will follow unless you do what needs to be done. Do we understand each other?"

* * *

A public execution always drew a rabble of bloodthirsty people, but when it was the Born King of England being put to the chopping block, they came in droves to Camelot. The blacklegs saluted and the mass chanted the King's name over and over out of fear. "King Vortigern!"

He turned back toward his prized prisoner and swept a white fur cap around before taking a front-row seat. Vortigern raised his hand and silence befell the audience.

They led Arthur forward to the chopping block by the ropes tied around his neck and hands. He went without a struggle, only glancing back at the distressed group of girls once. Their frightened expressions were already like a twisting knife in his gut. He wouldn't let them die because of his mistakes.

The Earl of Mercia extended his hand toward Arthur. "Behold!" he began, mocking the estranged child of Uther Pendragon. "Your Born King!" The people remained silent, waiting. "Behold the man who pulled sword from stone!" Art looked back over his shoulder at the guards behind him and to where Frida and the girls stood with tearful and solemn gazes.

"You wanted the prophecy?" the Earl asked, both arms raised in question, addressing those gathered and Arthur himself. "This is your prophecy." Ida vaguely recalled the prophecy. That a member of the Pendragon bloodline would take up the mythic sword to liberate his people.

"Now tell us, king," his gaze turned solely to Arthur, "what do you have to say?" The Born King lifted his head and looked at the gathering, but he couldn't will himself to look back. "They are your people," Mercia told him.

"You're the king, declare yourself!" This time there was almost a command laced in the jab. Murmuring began in the crowd. Some objecting, others doubtful and supportive. _They want to see blood_ , Frida thought, _and they don't care who's it is_.

"If you are lost for words, then let the sword speak for you," the Earl declared. One of the blacklegs approached Arthur and held out the sword, still sheathed, for him to take. He remained motionless, eyes downcast toward the pale stone. "Take it!" Mercia goaded, "show the people the power of Excalibur."

Still, Arthur did not move nor say anything. Frida swallowed, almost wishing that he would take up the sword. If the legends of its powers were true, then no one could stop him. "I said take it, king," the Earl spat, "raise that sword."

Vortigern looked between his closest advisor and the one person that could threaten his reign with a small, but pleased smirk. "I thought not," there was only mild disappointment in the Earl of Mercia's tone.

The King nodded for the sentence to be carried out. "This man cannot be allowed to bring discord to our flourishing nation."

"Look away," Katrina begged of her, but she couldn't. Frida was rooted in place, unable to think, unable to act, and unable to breathe when the headsman's axe was hefted up in the air. A sharp, throbbing pain, cut through Frida's head. She sank down onto her knees, pulling at her hair with silent throes of discomfort. Katrina and Loreena knelt, grasping onto her shoulders. The King felt the same pain and the taste of blood on his tongue.

A great brown eagle swooped down from the sky.


	7. Chapter Six

The headsman's ax slipped free in an attempt to fend off the ravenous bird. Horses bucked off their riders and the King's hounds began gnashing their jaws, howling and barking. Hooded men jumped up on the rostrum, racing toward the guards and Art. Katrina, Loreena, and the others fled, but the dull ache in Frida's head was still too much. She staggered forward, trying to get to Arthur.

One of the blacklegs darted toward her. In defense, she threw up her arms, only a light gathered in her palm and sank deep within the blackleg's chest. He screamed, clawing at his dark armor and skin, burning from the inside. Frida jumped back when the body fell and saw the eyes had been burned out. Panic seized her chest and would not let go.

Mercia slowed in his haste to escort the King away, glancing between her and the corpse with smoke rising from its eyes. "Arthur!" Frida had lost sight of him in the chaos.

An arm wrapped around her waist, sweeping her toward the stairs and the river. "C'mon," Arthur said, urgent, "Let's go." One of the men who had freed him picked up Excalibur, running with them. The crowd of people had parted in the commotion. The shouts of the King's men melded with the screaming of the common-folk.

They all veered off to where the river had cut a deep canyon through the surrounding country rock and up the rickety scaffolding. The ramp and wooden platform ended at the cliff face. Ida threw her hands up in front of herself to keep from tumbling straight down into the river below.

Vortigern's men were rushing up the stairs to the platform with swords drawn and arrows flying. "Jump!" Arthur yelled. Frida did not budge. She remained frozen in place. Two of the Blacklegs rammed their swords into the of men's guts who had helped Art escape the chopping block. The Mage and two of the men had already jumped, plummeting into the river below.

Arthur gritted his teeth together and shoved Ida forward and jumped a second after she began to fall.

Water filled her mouth. She bobbed up to the surface spluttering and gasping for air with skin stinging from the impact. But something grabbed hold of her ankle and dragged her back down into the dark water as arrows pierced the surface.

Arthur hauled her back up to the surface when the arrows stopped, his hand fisted in the heavy material of her bodice. Her bottom lip was quivering.

The river carried them downstream and when the castle and cliffs were no longer visible, they swam to the banks.

Frida wrapped the wet cloak around her shoulders, hugging it against her as tightly as she could manage with shaking hands. Her piercing stare had not left Arthur since they had emerged from the river. Arthur had never really known her umber colored eyes to be cold and harsh, but they were now.

He raised one of his brows at her, expecting to get an explanation for her soured expression as the others saddled a quintet of horses. "You pushed me off a cliff," she snapped.

"You froze like a deer!" He countered, knowing that she wouldn't have made the jump herself.

"Yes!" She began, exasperated. "Because that was over a hundred foot jump!" The Mage eyed them while the other three men silently begged that the journey wouldn't involve Arthur and her constantly bickering.

* * *

Frida didn't like riding horses. They were smelly and uncomfortable creatures. She preferred a wagon for long trips or to go on foot. But neither of those were an option given her current predicament. They hadn't bound her hands like they had done with Arthur, but she knew she wasn't free to wander either.

The realization that she had just been pulled into much bigger than her little bakery in Londinium was slowly dawning. Arthur _was_ the Born King. The lost son of Uther Pendragon and heir to Camelot. They street-rat of a boy she had met so many years ago was nobility.

Percival stopped their small caravan when the sun sank down low in the sky. The flat forest next to the river transitioned into rolling hills, then to steeper ones with bits of rock littering the landscape. They hadn't tents, only thin bedrolls and thinner blankets.

Rubio and Percy hauled Arthur off of his horse, refusing to unbind his hands. The two men dumped a pile of sticks and twigs on the ground for a fire. The Mage's eagle ate fresh rat meat, while they ate hard jerky, stale bread, and sour jam. Nobody said much, other than fleeting glances and strange expressions.

Frida turned her back to the glowing embers of the fire. Arthur was lying on his side, still awake. Her lips pressed into a thin line, trying to think of something to say but she didn't know how to pick the right words. The backs of his fingers brushed over her swollen cheek and bloodied lip. "They hurt you," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

She pushed away his hands and looked down into the fire. "I'm fine." That was a lie and he could easily tell that it was. She had been beaten, forced to watch Lucy die, and nearly had to watch him die too. She had _killed_ a man with her own wasn't fine, but this wasn't the time to dwell on it.

"Bruises will heal," Frida remarked with a bittersweet smile, "just like burns." Arthur marveled at her strength, knowing that it had been forged at a young age.

"How did they find you?" Vortigern told him that the brothel had been raided, but he made no mention of a bakery, or of a baker's assistant.

Frida thought back to the uneaten pie that had sat on a table, unscathed until they torched the building and took the hidden coffers. "I brought you a dewberry pie," she laughed, meeting his soft gaze. He pressed his forehead against hers and she could feel his puff of laughter tickle her cheek.

"Arthur," she mumbled, feeling panic and fear seize her heart and lungs again. "I think they know. When Mercia looked at me-"

"-Shh," he shushed her and scooted to the edge of his bedroll, "I'll protect you."

"You don't understand," she whispered, fearful that their compatriots would overhear the conversation. Her eyes slipped shut and she could see it, see the corpse at her feet with black, soulless, smoking eyes. Bile began to rise in her throat the longer she held that image. "I killed a man." Her voice trembled. Even with that admission, Arthur took her hands into his. His thumb stroked over her knuckles. "When his body hit the stone smoke rose from his eyes."

* * *

"They have someone of great power," his advisor announced. Vortigern frowned. He knew of the Mage, with her pathetic little stunt that allowed Uther's son to slip from his grasp once again. "The Mage, yes, I know," the King snapped in return.

Bayard, Earl of Mercia, shook his head. "Someone more powerful than the Mage." The King's attention snapped toward his advisor awaiting an explanation, not only for the interruption but for the implication that there could be a sorcerer more powerful than him. "An Arcanist," Bayard revealed.

Vortigern braced his hands on the table in front of him, not having expected to hear such a thing. He had slaughtered every man, woman, and child that bore the title or the potential to become an Arcanist early in his reign. The King took a deep breath. "Who is he?"

The Earl of Mercia glanced down at the maps and ledgers on the table. " _She_ ," he started, "is a baker's assistant in Londinium."

"Find her then," Vortigern commanded, "bring her to me." He would have to do away with her before she learned of her true potential, if she had not already.


	8. Chapter Seven

It was over a fire that the woman looked at Ida with pursed lips that soon formed a deep frown. It didn't seem possible, but there was no other explanation for the strange sensation that had come over her since the moment they neared one another. Her name was Frida. That had been the name of her sister. The sister that she had sent away years ago. The sister she had spared from a life of being hunted.

The Mage looked into the flames and knew that her gut feeling had to be right, it always was. "Frida?" She asked, softly.

Ida raised her eyes from the dancing flames at the voice that spoke her name. A piece of her past clicked into place then. "Eydís?" Her sister nodded and looked at the brown eagle that landed at her side. The winged beast was her familiar. "You're a Mage?"

Eydís stroked the eagle's feathers and nodded. "Mother was wrong when she told me." Their mother had both told them that they would be Arcanists, it had been in their blood for generations. She tossed a piece of red meat up for the eagle to catch. "You are an Arcanist, though," she noted. Frida nodded.

* * *

With another day and a half of riding, they arrived at their destination. A cave beneath large trees, half had been hewn from the mountainside. Percival and Rubio pushed the two of them forward. The entrance had been hidden by draping roots and leaves, pulled back by two men standing on the hollow hill.

One of them pulled off Arthur's outer coat, a precautionary measure no doubt. "Hang that up," Arthur remarked, mild contempt lacing his tone, "don't want it getting creased." He stepped over and wrapped his arm around Frida's shoulders.

Ida hugged herself, though, and stumbled forward on the uneven group, wishing that she could be back in the warmth of Edwyn's bakery, making cinnamon buns or rosemary bread.

"So, you're the chap that turned in Goosefat Bill." The man said, peeling the shell off of a hardboiled egg. Frida recognized him as a bow maker. A handful of years ago, he had come into the shop, an old knight from Uther Pendragon's court.

"Unlike you," Art started, glancing around at the furnished cave, "he chose the wrong place to hide."

"You know he was the third most wanted man on the blackleg's list?" Frida knew that on more than one occasion when Jack's Eye had barged into the bakery that it was Goosefat Bill they were looking for. He was infamous among the blacklegs. "They've been trying to catch him for some time."

"Like I said," Arthur reiterated, "your man chose the wrong place to hide."

The man that was chopping some type of leafy vegetable turned. "So it seems." Frida recognized him from the wanted signs that had been posted around the city. It was none other than Goosefat Bill himself.

Arthur leaned back with a smirk that bordered on a smile. "I was wondering what happened to you." He had figured that a man with a history his would manage to slip through the cracks again. "I told you, you were in safe hands."

"You've made quite a celebrity of yourself among the blackleg ranks," Bill noted. Everyone in Londinium seemed to acknowledge that Arthur had Jack's Eye and his crew tucked away in one of his coffers. The only person that would say otherwise was Art.

"You've done very nicely on the back of your cozy relationship with your kingsmen." A name clicked with the man's face. Bedivere.

"You know, I'm a little old for finger-wagging and speeches. So, unless you're my dad which," Arthur paused and looked over the old knight with his deep umber skin and white goatee, "I believe, is unlikely, can you just get around to telling me exactly what it is you want?"

"What is it that you want?" The old knight asked, setting down his peeled egg. Arthur looked over his shoulder toward Frida. She was safe, but he needed to what had happened to his other girls, to Back Lack and Wet Stick, and everyone else that he'd call a friend. "I want to get my arse out of here and see what's left of my life and the people in it." His eyes flitted between Goosefat and the knight. "But you're not gonna let me do that, are you?"

"And why aren't we?" Bedivere asked, setting down one of the peeled eggs.

"You just lost two men," Arthur reminded him. Those had been the two that covered their retreat from the crowd and up the scaffolding. The ones Frida had last seen with blackleg swords in their bellies. He glanced between Rubio, Percival, and the Mage, standing back in another area. "But you were prepared to lose five to save this pretty neck. So I'm not going anywhere, am I?"

"And where exactly were you thinking of going?" Goosefat Bill inquired. He waved his knife in the air as he shrugged. "You have no more home. It was razed days ago. You've no more life to go back to." Frida felt her throat constrict as she thought about the raid at the brothel. She didn't doubt that it was worse now. But it was Edwyn she worried for. The old baker did not deserve to be drug into this, and if he was, then it would be her fault.

"Like it or not, this is your lot," the old knight stated, though a hint of mirth worked its way to his expression in tone, "and even we don't like you. Do we, Goosefat?" He asked, looking over his shoulder. "But what we are interested in-" Bedivere stood and picked Excalibur up from the table "-is what you can do with this sword."

"Why don't you leave him with me for a minute or two, boss?" Goosefat questioned, slipping the ring off his right hand and onto the cutting board.

Arthur eyed him. "Put your ring back on, honey tits. You haven't had enough porridge this morning to talk like that." His attention turned back to Bedivere. "And if you like that sword so much, your lordship, you can keep it, to peel your grapes."

Bedivere turned and left, Goosefat Bill, trailing behind him. Though as he approached Arthur, he reared back and slapped him across the cheek. The sound seemed to echo through the cave. "Now that would've hurt a lot more if I left the ring on," the man stated as he walked away. Frida covered her mouth, trying to hide the fact that she was laughing. Arthur gave her a hard glare, but rose from his seat and followed after the other two.

"I see what you're doing," Arthur started, shaking his head, "you're trying to get me to do something razzle-dazzle with that sword." Frida stood next to her sister, arms crossed. "I'm gonna tell you right now, I'm not gettin' drawn into this mess. And there's an army of you, there's only one of me-" he glanced around at everyone in the cave, but reserved a sly wink when he saw Frida "-I haven't had a fight for years. And I'll talk. I'm happy to talk. But there is no way that I am fighting."

Ida rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming. For a brief second, it looked like they almost believed him when he said he wasn't going to fight. In a flash, he had hit Goosefat Bill in the neck, turned and kneed Bedivere in the gut, before head-butting Percival and ripping Excalibur free from its sheath.

Rubio and several others began to pull their own blades free, but Arthur motioned for them to stand down. He turned and smiled back at Frida. Eydís glanced at Frida, intrigued.

Goosefat pulled Rubio's sword free and came at Arthur, swinging. He parried and ducked under each swing with ease. Only moving defensively. Arthur kicked Bill away from him. "Is that it?" He asked, looking to Bedivere and Percy. Another man came at him, sword drawn but Art moved to a two-handed grip on the hilt of Excalibur, but was only able to maintain it for a brief second before it became too much. He stumbled backward.

Arthur dropped the sword and fell back onto the ground. Shocked, Frida raced to his side.


	9. Chapter Eight

When Arthur woke, it was to fading images of the same dream that had haunted him since childhood. There was a weight on his stomach. Lying next to him was Frida, still asleep, one of her arm's draped across him, hand loosely holding onto the thin fabric of his stained tunic. Her brows were in a deep furrow, making him wonder if she could sense his unease.

The Mage sat back on her haunches, away from the burning brazier that Excalibur rose from. She could feel the sword's power and knew of the memories it brought back when Arthur grasped onto the hilt with both hands. "You are resisting the sword," she told him in a grim tone, "the sword isn't resisting you." Excalibur wanted to be in the hands of a Pendragon. He need only to accept that power.

Arthur shifted, careful not disturb Ida as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He gripped onto the edge of the mattress and shook his head, keeping his gaze low.

"It should be clear by now that whatever it is that you and your friends think you want from me, I am not it." He didn't want any of this. He didn't want people dying in his name, the power, or the responsibility. He wanted his life back. A life that no longer existed.

"Not yet," Eydís refuted, looking back over her shoulder at the Born King.

"Not ever!" Art gritted out, unyielding and tired.

She looked ahead, studying the dark leather wrapping on the hilt of the sword. "What do you see when you hold the sword? It is something you've seen before, isn't it? Long before you ever touched the sword." Rhetorical questions, really, as she already knew the answers.

The Mage turned. He looked more uneasy now than he had at the chopping block. "You don't sleep well, do you?" Arthur looked over his shoulder, not meeting her unnerving gaze. "What if you could make the dreams go away?"

The dreams did go away sometimes. They were chased away on nights that he was near her. He never told Frida that more than a handful of times when he had climbed through her window that it wasn't because the blacklegs were after him, or because he had gotten into some scuffle, but because he wanted a good night's sleep.

* * *

Frida brushed her hair back, beginning to plait the dark strands when her sister appeared behind her. She wondered if this cold, stoic being could truly be the sister she had loved and lost so long ago. "Come with me," Eydís demanded.

"Where are we going?" Ida asked, trailing a few steps behind her. She didn't see how going anywhere would be a good idea considering that all of Vortigern's men would be searching for them in every crack and crevice.

"You will soon see." The cryptic response was not the answer Frida was looking for. At the entrance to the cave were five saddled horses. Bedivere and Percival had already mounted theirs, but Arthur was fidgeting with the packs on his saddle. He had never been fond of horses. Regardless, he mounted the speckled mare as the two women did.

The curtain of foliage was pulled aside to allow them passage. From the encampment, they rode west, toward the river. Rubio and Barric were already at the small dock. They had filled the lanterns, stocked fresh water, and packed a crate of food. More provisions than would be needed for what was meant to be no more than a two-day journey.

Barric tended the horses, roping them together after the five of them had boarded to be led back to camp. Rubio then untied the mooring line, tossing it over the railing to Bedivere before pushing the boat off.

The riverboat traveled northward, moving swiftly through the dark water, pushing farther into the wilderness.

With a half day's journey, they arrived at a massive island that split the river in two. It was permanently dark, with clouds shrouding the sun and a low hanging fog that clung to the shoreline. Trees were mangled and twisted into odd shapes. Their leaves dark and diseased. What creatures lay beyond, Frida could not hope to imagine.

Atop the peak of the island were the crumbling remains of a tower. An old mage tower, like the one at Camelot. "Welcome to the Darklands," Bedivere announced, no small amount of displeasure lacing the words.

Arthur and Frida exchanged apprehensive looks as they disembarked the ship on a narrow wooden plank. They followed the knight and Mage into the forest line, to the center of an ancient stone structure.

Eydís walked in a large circle on the inside of the stones emptying a sash of crushed stone, herbs, and charcoal. The ground moved beneath their feet, slithering, crawling. Alive. Arthur looked down, brows knitted together. "Are you scared?" She asked, gaze dark and piercing

He looked around. "I think I can manage," Art replied, cocksure. Frida knew that was the wrong answer. This was a place where darkness dwelled.

"You should be scared," the Mage said. There was a loud crack of thunder followed by a downpour, but it only rained in within the bounds of the uplifted stones. Bedivere motioned for Ida to step out of the stone ring.

Arthur pulled the hood of his coat up, giving Frida one last fleeting glance. Then he was veiled from their eyes. Gone into the Darklands to discover truths.

There was no sign that the sun had set, yet it grew dark. There was no moon, no stars, just a grey blanket spread overhead that masked everything. Oil lanterns kept the boat's deck illuminated. The flames flickered, but there was no wind.

Ida felt she could not sit still, not when she was worried about Art, not when there was a strange feeling in her gut that would not fade. "Time passes differently in the Darklands," Bedivere explained, hoping it would stop the woman's insistent pacing. Frida stopped and looked back up at the peak of the island, now barely visible for the clouds and darkness.

"Even the wisest cannot say what each person will see," the Mage butted in, stripping the leaves off some strange herb she'd collected from the forest floor. "A curse lies upon the isle. It seeks to lead you astray, to trap you." The old knight gave the Mage a harsh look as if he knew what her next actions would be.

"Can you feel it?" Eydís inquired, dark eyes gleaming in the low light with something dangerous. There _had_ been a strange weight on her chest since first laying eyes upon the Darklands. One that felt as if it could crush her. Frida gasped at the pain that blossomed in her heart, spreading through her veins like wildfire. Her sister rose from the deck. "It calls to the power that you have kept repressed."

Ida blindly grasped onto the railing of the docked boat. Needing something to help keep her upright. She felt sick. "Do not fight it or it will consume you," Eydís warned.

Frida held tight to her rapidly beating heart, trying to calm herself or stop the pain, but she couldn't help but fight the darkness. Tears streaked down her paling cheeks. She could not go on like this, not burning on the inside. Breathless, her knees gave out and she fell onto the deck. "It hurts!" Frida cried. It hurt worse than any burn or cut she had ever received.

Bedivere leaped to his feet, startled to see that Ida's tears had turned to blood. He could watch no longer. "Stop, Mage!"

The Mage circled her. "Because you are weak," she sneered, not breaking the concentration that focused the darkness upon her defenseless sister. "For now, you are nothing more than a piece of malleable metal. Weak and unformed-" Eydís stopped pacing when Frida fell backward, body convulsing "-but the pain is the hammer that will forge you!"

Percival shouted at the Mage again, this time she heeded their commands. Eydís turned her gaze away from her sister and back to the island, maddened for the interruption. It had taken hours of torment by Merlin's hand before she could fully control her own abilities. Only then was she granted the mantle of his acolyte. Frida could not run from her destiny any longer.

The old knight held Frida's seizing body, calming her in an iron embrace. He looked up at the Mage, dark eyes harsh and mistrustful once again. "She is not ready," he told her, but no one could ever be ready for what the Darklands would put them through.


	10. Chapter Nine

Only a day passed, but when Bedivere and Percy hauled Arthur onto the boat, it looked as if he had been in the wilderness for weeks. They laid him out on the deck and stepped back. The manner in which Bedivere and Percival looked down at him was curious, like they hadn't expected the true king of England to bleed.

Frida forced them aside and knelt, assessing his injuries. By far, the most concerning was the gash on his forehead that went up into his hairline. The rest were only small cuts and scrapes, or bruises.

With a damp piece of cloth, she wiped the dirt and dried blood away from his face. He did not wake, not even when she pulled a piece of detritus from the cut. The old knight watched curiously as she worked with a patient ease. He could already tell that she was Arthur's counterbalance.

Percy sat a pail of freshly mixed saline solution down next to her and gave her a stack of linen pieces. She thanked him and dipped a strip of the linen into the cloudy liquid. It stung the small nicks on her hands. Edwyn had always told her that if it stung or burned, then it meant it was working.

His eyes shot open at the abrupt stinging sensation, followed by a sharp inhale. "Sorry," Ida muttered, dabbing the cloth over the wound. He watched her and thought it was fitting that the sun had cast a halo of light around her.

"S'okay," Arthur said softly in return, a lazy smile stretching across his cracked lips. She moved onto his hands. The skin on most his knuckles was split. They would soon match the deep scars that ran across his palms.

Eydís prepared a poultice of honey, yarrow, and turmeric. It was a deep golden color and smelled faintly of citrus. She placed the thick leaf holding the cataplasm next to Frida and stepped back.

"You've done this before," her sister mused, keeping her distance after what had transpired the prior evening. In truth, she was surprised to find that Frida knew the proper procedures. It wasn't until after she was an acolyte that Merlin had taught her the art of healing.

Frida continued spreading the paste over Arthur's brow, a faint smile appearing on her tired features. "I've lost count of how many times I've patched this one up," she admitted in a tone laced with mirth. That earned her a sharp glare from the Born King, though.

* * *

It had taken twice as long to return to the hidden cave in the downpour. The deluge was permeated by the occasional flash of lightning and the accompanying clap of thunder. However, the storm faded when the curtain of foliage at the cave's entrance was pulled back.

A chill that had been in the air was chased away by the earthen warmth and lit braziers. Although it could not remedy the chill that had sunk into their bones from wet clothes. Clarisse was able to spare two dry gowns for the Mage and her sister. Between Rubio and the others, they were able to scrounge up a dry pair of pants and a tunic for Arthur.

He limped to one of the beds. Between his swollen ankle and tender muscles, he was glad to be off his feet again. Frida followed him, knowing that soggy bandages would do nothing but hinder his wounds from mending.

"You're awfully quiet," she noted as she wrapped his hand in a clean strip of linen. The bruise around his eye was beginning to show its dark colors. Frida couldn't say if his unusual silence was because of what he had seen in the Darklands or his state of exhaustion, maybe it was both. He didn't say anything.

"You need to rest," Frida told him, setting the box of supplies aside. Salves could only do so much. Time would be the best remedy for his wounds. Patience, though, had never been one of Arthur's fortes.

She wiped her hands on a thin apron. Art wrapped his hand around her wrist before she could stand. "Don't go." Frida sighed but kicked off her slippers and laid next to him, head resting on his shoulder. Once she was sure he was asleep, Frida rose and replaced her slippers. She crept toward the back of the cave and the poor space that they called a kitchen. Ida was troubled and there was only one thing that could ease her mind. Baking.

Flour coated her hands as she kneaded the crumbling dough. Bowls filled with fresh picked wild berries were curing with honey and sugar. Bedivere had thought her sudden request strange at first, but relented, and now observed her as she worked.

He had known Edwyn from his days as a member in Uther's court. A widower with no surviving children and yet a small girl had wandered into his life one stormy night. It was clear that she had done well as an orphan. Arthur had as well. Londinium wasn't a kind city, but they both had flourished under hardship.

Soon, the dough and berries became hand pies, dusted with sugar and slipped into a stone oven that Rubio had tended for her. "Stress baking?" A familiar voice asked from behind.

Frida jumped, dropping a dull butter knife onto the ground, then quickly turned around. "Tristan!"

In two strides, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I'm glad to see your face," Wet Stick said, giving her cheek a quick peck. They'd searched the city for her after the bridge was burned and feared the worst when they couldn't find her.

"Ida!" The boy ran around Wet Stick and jumped up into her arms. Back Lack was about to scold Blue, but couldn't bring himself to scold the boy, not after they thought she'd been murdered by the blacklegs.

Blue looked around the kitchen, a small frown appearing on his young face. "Where's the boss?" It was a question that Wet Stick and Back Lack had too.

* * *

"Smaller than I thought it'd be," she heard Blue remark as she set a platter of the fresh hand pies at the center of the room. The boy was looking over Excalibur and the way the ripples on the blade moved like water with the shifting light. It looked more like a work of art than a weapon.

Arthur leaned back on a stool, hand holding his bruised ribs. "It's all yours, son, but I warn you, it's got quite a bite." Blue propped the sword upon the hearth and dashed forward, grabbing one of the berry hand pies. They were still warm and had a sweet glaze that was seeping into the golden crust. "What they done back home?"

"You really wanna know?" Tristan questioned. Frida knew at that moment their life in Londinium would never be the same.

"It's all gone," Back Lack said, shaking his head, "they torched the lot." That was a severe understatement of the chaos that had erupted after Arthur fled the chopping block.

Art tugged on the shawl draped around his shoulders. The shadows from the fire made his bruised eye look black. "Go on," he said, knowing that wasn't the whole truth. The whole truth was always worse.

"You should be flattered, mate. Even Mercia left the castle to look for you and that sword." The Earl of Mercia was Vortigern's prime advisor, the only member left of Uther's court. He seldom left the King's side.

Back Lack glanced down at the woven rug spread out on the dirt floor and gave a deep sigh before continuing. "Jack's Eye turned. Gave 'em a list of everything you valued. They slaughtered half the neighborhood. Mischief John got busy too. Personally burned down the bridge. It was quite a party. Shall I continue?"

Frida watched Arthur carefully. He had taken the news in silence, but the storm brewing in his eyes spoke of the anger beneath his façade. He met her troubled gaze and swallowed a lump in his throat. He had a decision to make. "What about the rest of the team?"

"Most of the girls are with us," Tristan answered, "but the rest of the crew pretty much got gist of your popularity and made themselves scarce."

There was a pause. A brief moment of silence where Frida was frightened to know what came next. Her gaze didn't leave Arthur, not when she could see something big brewing in the depths of his mind. "Blue," Art said, nodding toward the boy, "go get us something to drink."

The boy held tight to Excalibur. "Come on, boss," he reproved, shoulders falling in disappointment. "I'm one of the crew."

"Blue!" Back Lack scolded his son's gall. Sighing, the boy stood and headed from the room with the sword. His father stopped him and took Excalibur to look over it himself. Knowing that Blue would still try to listen to what they said, Frida rose from her stool and rested her hand on the center of his back, nudging him along. "Let's go, Blue."


	11. Chapter Ten

"Bruenor." Back Lack turned, surprised to hear something other than his street name. It must've been years since he heard it. Before his wife died in the Great Spring Fever three years ago.

Frida stood in the carved entrance of the room, her hands clasped at the ties on her apron. Unshed tears had gathered in her eyes. "Did you see Edwyn?"

Back Lack nodded, gaze flitting downward. "He slipped through the back door 'fore they-" he stopped, not knowing how best to tell her that her life in Londinium had been demolished "-before they torched the bakery."

Her jaw clenched and the tears slipped down her cheeks. A dam had just broken. Not only was the bakery gone, but the small apartment that had been above it. All her trinkets and valuables, the books and hand-sewn dresses, everything would be ash.

"They were looking for you. Don't know why, but they were askin' about a baker's assistant." Ida's blood ran cold. Fear seized her chest and would not let go. It began with a tingle of warmth starting at her wrists and flowed down into her hands. It was like she had woken from a nightmare. She needed to leave.

Frida ran. She ran straight into to Arthur and fell before his feet, sobbing, hands glowing with the light. Surprised and frightened, he knelt next to her and gripped onto both of her trembling hands. At his touch, the glow faded, receding from her fingertips into her palms. "They know," she cried.

Art dropped her hands and cradled her face, his thumbs wiping away the tears. "Ida-" her eyes were still squeezed shut, her breathing ragged "-Ida, darlin', look at me." She did. His cornflower eyes were hard as stone. "If anyone hurts you, I'll kill them."

* * *

The cool, shallow water of the stream flowed over her bare feet. She needed time for herself and found it just outside the encampment. Birds tweeted their songs and the scent of nearby lemon balm was in the morning air.

She'd give just about anything to be back at the bakery. Elbow deep in flour, tending the stone oven, glazing sweet buns with a sticky icing. Not knowing if Edwyn was safe was gnawing away at her. Ashes could be swept away, the bakery rebuilt, but life was not so generous.

Frida hadn't heard her sister approach until she next to her on the grassy bank. The Mage wrapped her arms around her legs and looked out over the hills in the distance. "I should not have pushed you," Eydís confessed, eyes downcast in shame. It had been wrong of her to assume that the Darklands held the secret to Arcane powers.

Eydís rose from the stream bank. "The Darklands is where I trained," she explained, pacing in a circle. Merlin had mentored her there for weeks, battling and mastering bird and beast until she could control them all. It had been the venom of a giant snake and granted her control. The scar remained on her covered wrist. "Perhaps that is not to be the place of your reckoning."

Having seen what little her sister had done made Frida want to train. She wanted to grow better in her craft, but there was no one to teach her. With her palms facing up, she closed her eyes, ringed with dark circles and smudged soot from the oven, and focused the spark within it. A light did not come this time. Only a handful of measly sparks formed at her fingertips.

The Mage laid her hands over her sister's. "I do not know if I can help you become an Arcanist, but I will try." Eydís knew that when her full potential was unleashed she would be far more powerful than her. Perhaps even stronger than Merlin, himself.

"At this point," Frida started with a lame chuckle, "I think just about anything would help."

* * *

After remaining silent throughout the duration of the meeting Arthur and Bedivere had announced, Frida couldn't take it any longer. When all but a handful of the rebels cleared from the table, she hauled Arthur into one of the side rooms of the cave and thumped him upside the head. "Did you get knocked on the head when you were on that island?" Frida demanded, on the verge of anger.

Caught off-guard by her outburst, Art shrugged. "A few times." If they hadn't just been discussing regicide, maybe she would have laughed at his sardonic response.

Burning down one of Vortigern's palaces, interrupting his flux of slaves, and sinking his stone barges was one thing. Planning to assassinate the King in broad daylight was another.

Ida sighed. "You really think you're going to be able to kill Vortigern?" The King was nigh untouchable. He had a suite of guards surrounding him and besides that, he was a powerful sorcerer. A formidable enemy.

"With the right plan? Yeah." But a rooftop assassination in Londinium didn't sound like the right plan. Too many things could go wrong. One slip and they would be trapped in the city.

Frida didn't doubt Goosefat Bill's aim. She doubted the ability of a single arrow to bring down the King. "He slaughtered the most powerful Mages and Arcanists," her voice broke as she thought of her mother.

Arthur gripped her shoulders. There was something even more beautiful about her when she was irate -it was the flush on her cheeks and the spark in her eyes. The people of Londinium loved her. Arthur loved her.

"He didn't kill all of them, though." She shook her head. An untrained Arcanist could be just as dangerous as one that had gone bad. She couldn't control it. She wouldn't be of use in this scheme. "Art," Frida chided.

"He killed my parents." That was the dream that haunted him and though he had repressed parts of it, the sword showed him the truth. "He killed your mother and drove you and your sister apart."

England needed a better king, not a despot bent on acquiring a sword he'd never be able to wield. Frida knew that, but she hated the life that had been thrust upon her since the brothel was raided.

"I wish none of this had happened," Frida remarked, hugging herself as she took a step back. She wanted to be back in her bakery with Edwyn. She wanted Arthur to just be her street-rat that would bug her at odd hours of the day. "I wish we could go back." It was a childish wish.

"There is no going back," he told her softly, taking her into his arms.

"I know," she muttered into his chest, "and that's what scares me." Arthur's arms tightened around her; his cheek pressed into her dark hair. Frida closed her eyes, hand loosely fisted in his coarse tunic, unwilling to let go of the moment.

* * *

"You must will the water to become the thing," Eydís reiterated, "convince it."

Frida's shoulders dropped. The pewter goblet of water had not yielded to her commands. She had tried what seemed to be simpler transitions: water to wine, water to air, water to sand. There was nothing to show for all her efforts. The water didn't _want_ to change, it was content remaining as water.

"It will take time," the Mage said in return, taking a seat across from her sister at the table. Merlin had told her stories of the greatest Arcanists and claimed that even he could not compare to their power.

It was said that Camelot had been lifted from the river and molded into a castle by three Arcanists in a single night. "They say the greatest Arcanists could lift entire cities from the water, turn dust into grain, and turn the air into diamonds."

A berating laugh slipped from Frida's dry lips. She picked up the goblet, taking a long drink of the tepid water. "And I cannot accomplish even the simplest things."

"Like I said," Eydís restated, "it will take time."

But time was something that they did not have enough of.


	12. Chapter Eleven

"I'm coming with you," Frida decided, having heard the absurd plan through twice. It would either succeed or be a fantastic failure. At the moment, she couldn't say which she thought it would be. Bedivere and the other rebels had cleared out of the main room.

The declaration caught Arthur's undivided attention. His back had been toward her, but at the words, his shoulders fell. He hadn't wanted her to be this stubborn. He didn't want her to be in harm's way if something did go wrong.

"I'll keep near the safe house at the docks," she reasoned, hoping that would appease him, "keep it clear for you lot." She wasn't trained with a sword, nor was she well versed in her own abilities, but she did know how to swing a frying pan hard enough to knock someone on their arse.

"Ida," Arthur rebuked, not wanting to argue.

"You're not going to leave me behind, Arthur." There it was. That spark of determination that he adored. He had to stop himself from smiling as he rounded the table and grasped onto her hands. She glanced down but found herself drawn back to his eyes. "You may as well accept that I'm coming with you," she told him, leaving no room for him to object.

* * *

They entered the city on foot. Most of the blacklegs were preoccupied with the King's arrival that they weren't posted at every backdoor gate into the city. That could soon prove to be a grave mistake on their part. Some of the city-folk caught glimpse of them and where some smiled, others frowned at the sudden reappearance of Arthur and his lot.

The safe-house was on the water, at the very edge of Londinium. An easy point to escape from if they could make it back. "I'll be here," Ida iterated. That was the plan after all. She was supposed to keep a lookout and have the path cleared for them to get to the boat.

"Wait!" Arthur turned at the outburst. The uneven and splintering wooden steps she stood on closed the height gap between them. She kissed his cheek. His beard tickled her chin and beneath her lips, Frida could feel a small scar. "Be careful."

Once they were out of sight, she looked over her shoulder at the young boy with blonde hair holding a deep blue cap in his hands. "Blue," he perked up at the call of his name. "Be another set of eyes for me."

"You got it," the boy said as he pulled his toboggan back on and raced down the stairs into the streets. There was a twofold reason for why she had sent Blue off. For one, he could easily go unnoticed, and that was a useful property when the King was to be assassinated. And two, she desperately wanted to return what remained of her life. Pulling the hood of her cloak up, Ida set out, hoping she could go unnoticed too.

She stood where the bakery's storefront should have been. Instead, the sign and awning were gone, and the stone was singed with soot. The inside and second floor of the bakery had been gutted by the fire. Frida picked up her skirts and stepped over a pile of half-burned wooden planks, what was left of the counter. A pane of glass cracked beneath her foot, it must have been from the display.

A glint of copper caught her attention. The bowl was filled with ash and buried, but a small part of the handle could be seen. She picked it up and dumped the ashes out. Beneath it was a small metal seal, the bread stamp.

What tools had been wooden was now gone, but the few things that were metal and stone had survived. Knowing that she had already loitered too long, Frida stooped down gathered up the bread stamp and two nestled copper bowls. Her belongings had all been lost, but at least she would have something to keep.

The safe-house was in her sights when the first powdered arrow exploded in a puff of black smoke. She paused and looked back over her shoulder. Black smoke lingered over the western docks.

"You there!" A blackleg shouted. Frida turned, her heart beating in her throat. The soldier drew his sword, blocking the way. "You're coming with me!" Several people flowed out of a tavern at the commotion. _They're looking for a baker's assistant_.

The blackleg prowled closer and she remained frozen. Panic had pushed a surge of some unspoken power into her body. Warmth gathered in her hand in the form of white light. Frida extended her arm in the blackleg's direction and closed her eyes. It was only a fleeting thought of the wrought copper bowl in her arm that caused the man to choke.

She watched as he clawed at his throat for air, unaware that he no longer had blood in his veins, but metal. Horror and dread filled her gut as he stumbled forward, dropping his sword. Molten copper leaked from his lips and eyes. The blackleg soldier hit the cobbled street like a solid piece of metal, hair smoking, skin burning.

Frida backed away and looked around at the people who gaped at her. Some pointed, others whispered, but all those who looked on were at unease. She turned and ran down an alleyway.

* * *

The boat was tied to a post with the oars hidden inside, now it held Frida's findings too. Everything was set for the escape. She just had to wait for them to return. Eventually, the powdered arrows ceased. Their final markers had been over George's establishment.

Before dark, Arthur and rest filed into the house at the docks. Though it soon came to Frida's attention that Rubio and Back Lack were missing and so was Blue. They'd wait a while longer to give them time to make it back to the regrouping point.

The plan had failed. Vortigern had been a step ahead of them all along and sent a decoy in his stead. It appeared that most of the commotion could have been avoided if Goosefat Bill hadn't killed Bayard, Earl of Mercia, even after they knew it was a decoy. But now the people had witnessed the power of the Born King and the same people were rising up in the streets. Rioting with torches and crude weapons, pushing back the blacklegs.

When the door suddenly opened, everyone was at unease, until they saw who it was. Back Lack and Blue had returned, but it was clear the latter had been wounded. Tristan stepped up and eased Bruenor back against one of the thick wooden columns. The front of his shirt was red and damp. He was sweating, already having lost a fairly large amount of blood.

Frida knelt and pulled his hands away. The tear in his tunic revealed it was a deep wound and still bleeding badly. It needed to be tended to immediately. "I need water and rags!" She called, looking over her shoulder. Percival sat a basin of water next to her and Wet Stick cut an old sheet into long strips.

Wringing the excess water from a strip of cloth, she pressed it against his abdomen. He flinched at the pressure. Deep down he knew this was the end and he knew that time was running out for the others to leave. Back Lack pushed her hands away, shaking his head. "Don't worry with me, Ida." He refused any further help.

Frida turned to Arthur, her hands and sleeves now stained, she swallowed the lump in her throat. "He's not going to make it," she told him softly, that way Blue wouldn't overhear it.

Arthur gripped onto Frida's wrist, his hand trailing down until he gently held hers. "We need to leave," he told her and everyone else. Between the coming darkness and the low hanging fog, their retreat would be covered. They couldn't afford to linger any longer.

"Here," Back Lack said, pushing his boy away from him, "load everyone else up and come back for me." Blue shook his head, not budging as Goosefat and Bedivere gathered up their swords and bows. "No, I'll stay with you!" Blue declared, bottom lip quivering.

"No, you won't," Bruenor gritted out, "give 'em a hand." Blue looked back at his father, hesitant and scared. "I'll be all right, mate," he reassured his son, though everyone else seemed to know it was a lie. Back Lack waved them off, toward the door. "Just give me a minute."

"Come on, Blue." Art nudged the boy forward and passed Excalibur to him. "You carry this." Frida placed her hand on the center of his back and ushered him along. All but Art and Blue had clambered into the boat. "Get in the boat, Blue. I'll get your dad."

Blue shook his head. "I can't leave him!" The boy cried. "Blue!" Frida called after him, but he didn't listen. Arthur passed her Excalibur and ran off after the distraught boy.

A few minutes later, Art was running back down the steps, Blue in his arms. He slammed the access doors closed and slid the lock in place. Seconds passed before someone started pounding on the doors, trying to pry them open. Arthur lifted the hysterical boy into the boat and followed in behind him. His arms were wrapped tightly around Blue.

Percival pushed them away from the dock and slowly the fires of Londinium faded into smoke and then nothingness.


	13. Chapter Twelve

"C'mere Blue," Frida murmured, opening her arms up. He'd refused to cry on the way back to the cave, but when he came to her the tears sprang up. Ida wrapped her arms around the boy, holding him close. No child should have to watch their parents be butchered.

Blue's shoulders shook and then the tears turned into dry heaves. Ida rubbed his back and stroked his hair. She couldn't calm him, not really, but she tried her best. Soon he grew quiet and his breathing evened out having gone to sleep. She laid him back on the poorly made bed and sat next to him.

Arthur was sitting on a stool across the room, silent and contemplative. Careful not to disturb Blue, Frida rose from the bed and moved to stand before him. "It's not your fault, Arthur," she breathed, fingers tracing along the raised scars on his temple and neck. There were more to match them, they were concealed by his shirt. She had treated most of them herself. He slumped forward, pressing his forehead against her stomach. Ida ran her fingers through his hair. The Born King of England loosely gripped onto her hips, reluctant to let her slip away.

She remembered a song that her mother used to sing, however, there was another voice that she could not place, deep and masculine. " _The sky is dark and the hills are white as the storm-king speeds from the northern night_..." but the rest of the lyrics had already been forgotten. Frida gave a small sigh and continued mussing his hair.

Ida stepped back and returned to the empty space next to Blue. He followed soon after. Art sat on the edge of the bed, not able to sleep. With an outstretched hand, she feebly grasped onto Arthur's fingers as he looked at the sword with deep anger, hatred, and grief.

Arthur looked between the sword and Frida with Blue lying next to her, both were now peacefully sleeping, but a storm was brewing inside him.

It was then he made his choice. Rising from the edge of the bed, Art slipped his hand free of hers and grabbed Excalibur. He paused, looking back over his shoulder and frowned. His feet carried him back toward the small bed, where he bent down and brushed the frayed hair from Ida's face before kissing her forehead. He knew what he had to do.

Too many people had been hurt because of the bloody sword he'd managed to pull from the stone. Arthur wouldn't let her become one of them.

* * *

Mischief John waltzed into the encampment with a dozen soldiers behind him. More men than he would need considering that Arthur and most of the other men were nowhere to be seen. Frida rose, as did the others. "This is too easy," the blackleg commander sneered.

Blue raced toward a butchers knife, but Josselyn grabbed a hold of his shirt before he could reach it. But the two men who had stayed behind picked up their swords despite being grossly outnumbered.

John unsheathed his sword and raised it, pointing at Eydís and Frida. "The King wants them," he noted, turning to the girl that held Blue back, "the boy too." The soldiers advanced, drawing their swords and daggers. Already knowing their next command without it having to be spoken. "Kill the rest," the commander barked.

A familiar surge of panic raced through her veins. A light formed in Ida's hand, bright enough to blind, but it had no effect. Not when it faded instantly when something hard collided with her temple, sending her face first into the ground.

It was probably for the best that she couldn't hear their screams.

* * *

"Arthur," Bedivere began, treading carefully knowing that he was addressing a very sensitive topic. "Think." He told him, but that didn't seem to get past his anger and into his thick head. Bedivere knew what had to be done, knew that deep down Arthur did too. "Frida cannot help you stop Vortigern, but the Mage can." If she had been a trained arcanist then that would change things, but she wasn't.

"So I'm supposed to leave Ida and Blue at his mercy?" He snapped in return. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"For now-" Bedivere paused and found that Arthur looked more like a caged animal, dangerous and unpredictable "-yes." Art didn't much care for that response.

"It is the Mage who we need right now," Goosefat Bill reiterated. Arthur glared at the archer, silencing him before he could speak again.

"Barter for the Mage, kill the King, destroy the tower, and you're that much closer to freeing them both," Bedivere explained. He had known Vortigern while in Uther's court and knew that the King wouldn't harm either of them. Not when they were important pawns in his ploy to lure the Born King into his grasp.

"I made her a promise," Arthur told him, voice cracking. She'd been so scared as she told him the truth, even more so when Back Lack told her that the king's men were searching for her and now he'd broken his word. He hadn't been there to protect her.

"Promises are dangerous things," the old knight told him, "especially when you know they cannot be kept." Bedivere took Excalibur and pressed the flat of the sheathed sword into Arthur's chest. "But you still have time to keep your promise."

* * *

Vortigern sat on a three-legged stool, twisting his crown around in his hands. The metal was tarnished. It had never shone as brightly for him as it had when Uther was king. He looked at the arcanist with contempt and disappointment. She looked nothing more than a frightened peasant. "So, you're the last one," he mused, looking back down at the gilded crown, "the last arcanist left in this world."

It was a shame, really. Arcanists could accomplish impressive feats and had proven to be tremendous assets in the past, but with his rise to power...well, sacrifices had to be made to ensure the survival of his reign.

He recalled the village. The forsaken patch of land where witches and wizards were bred like dogs. A potential threat to his rule. He remembered giving the command and watching as the bodies burned and hanged, swaying in the night wind. It was a glorious sight that cemented his place as the unchallenged King of England.

"I ordered my men to slaughter that forsaken village and yet a child survived," he chuckled, it was low and dark, a guttural sound that reminded her of stone grinding on stone. "How befitting is it that the two children that escaped my grasp managed to survive and have grown to be such thorns in my side?"

Frida coward back into the corner of the cell. The King looked down at her in disdain. "What can you do?" He breathed in a slow breath as if to calm himself. "There's no point in lying, girl, I can tell if you do." She didn't respond. Vortigern seized her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look upon him. "To what extent does your power reach?!" He yelled, spittle landing on her cheek.

She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to pretend it was all a bad dream. Wanting to be able to turn the air in the King's lungs to stone. Wanting to not be helpless. "I can only conjure the Light," Frida whispered, voice strained.

"Show me," he commanded, releasing her, and she did. Ida turned her palm upward and breathed slowly, steadily. Her eyes closed as she focused on pulling the energy from the air, the stone, and the metal that surrounded her. Vortigern looked on in awe when the light gathered, cradled in her hands like an embryonic bonfire.

It was a pure white light that could illuminate the darkest cell in a manner that would make it seem as if the sun were capable of shining through stone. It buzzed in her shackled hands filled with raw energy, raw power, ready to burn, ready to destroy.

Vortigern stood and looked down his nose at her, replacing the crown with faintest of smiles. "It seems you may yet be of use to me," he noted before shutting the solid wooden door behind him, plunging Frida into darkness once more.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

"STONE by stone cracked, crushed, fallen.  
Beauty burned, erased, but not forgotten."

Frida drew in a deep breath, reciting the lyrics of an old song that Edwyn had once sung to her as a child. The song was older than the Sword, older than even Merlin, and spoke of a great war that had occurred between Men and Mages. For now, it drew her attention away from the dark cell and to the light that hovered above her palm, pulsing in sync with her own heart.

"I'll take your melodies.  
May your last breath fill the air with embers."

Her voice trembled as she took another slow, deep breath to finish the first verse.

"I inhale."

During her repose, she could hear something through the thick stone walls. There was fighting above her. She could make out the sound of swords clashing and the shouts of men dying. Her heart began to beat faster. The loud thudding in her ears was almost enough to drown out everything else. Her light faded and there was darkness around her again.

She crawled, trying to reach the door, but the restraints on her wrists and ankles would not allow her that far. So she pulled and twisted the manacles on her ankles until blood stained her hands and ran down her feet.

Frida closed her eyes and gripped onto the metal, trying to will it to become something softer, something that she could escape from. Nothing happened. Frustrated, Frida screamed until her voice all but disappeared. There were nothing and no one around her. No one would realize she was there.

She felt something. A pain that was rooted deep in her very being. It was followed by a loud rumble that shook the floor and walls. The earth shook too. Something was happening. With a renewed effort, she began twisting the shackles, ignoring the burning pain. She would not be left in the darkness.

* * *

Arthur clasped onto Bedivere's shoulder, out of breath and covered in debris from the collapsed tower, ignoring his own injuries. "You found them?" He asked, seeing as though Maggie, Blue, the rest of his girls, and even Rubio were filing out into the night. Free of their prison cells. The old knight nodded, but then his expression grew dire. "But we haven't found her yet."

The maid Maggie grasped onto Arthur's arm before he could react. "There's a second set of cells near the docks," she told him, pulling him in that direction.

There had been an eerie calm since the earth shook. Ida looked around her cell, expecting something to happen, but nothing did. She was still in the dark, still bound and chained, still unable to control her own abilities.

"Ida!" Frida lifted her head from the stone wall and looked toward the heavy wooden door where only a thin stream of pale golden light could enter. Her heart jumped at the sound of his voice growing closer. "Art!" She called back, beginning the struggle against her bonds once more with renewed vigor.

The heavy wooden door had no lock, only three large iron hinges bolted into grey stone that could be immobilized with magic. Arthur ran his fingers over the seasoned oak and found it unwilling to move. There was a loud thud as he pushed on it with his shoulder and another, this one louder as he threw all of his weight against the door. It would not budge. Panic swelled in Frida's chest. He was mere feet away from her, but unable to reach her.

Gripping the sword with two hands, he struck the hinges with a savage cry. Two of them broke, completely. The spell over the door broke in a flash of bright red light. Frida shrieked at the sudden blast of light and Art shielded his eyes.

Arthur ripped open the iron reinforced door of the holding cell and sank to his knees next to her. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her bruised temple. "Arthur," she breathed, squeezing his forearm. She frowned as she pulled her hand away from his arm, the warm and slick feel of blood coated her fingertips. "You're bleeding."

He ignored her observation and hefted Excalibur over his head, bringing it down in one swift motion onto the iron shackles that bound her ankles. The rusted metal shattered on the blade's sharp edge. He did the same to the chains on her wrists. Arthur slipped his arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders. "Let's get you outta here," he whispered against her temple, standing with her in his arms.

He didn't know where he was going, but at the first empty bedchambers, he stopped. Her balance was unsteady when he set her back to her own feet. The skin around her ankles broken and raw in her own attempts to escape, but that didn't stop her from pointing at the bed. "Sit," Frida instructed, slipping back into her role as his personal nurse.

Arthur followed her command with a roll of his eyes. "M'lady," he mused in a satirical tone. She finished pulling his stained and tattered tunic overhead. The fine material had been ruined. Ida brushed her fingertips over the small scrapes and scratches, pleased to see that her initial assessment was mostly wrong.

The worst of it was a cut on his abdomen, but that had already stopped bleeding. "It's not bad as I thought it'd be." But in a way it was, everywhere her hands touched was on fire and it made him draw in a sharp breath that she took as discomfort. "Arthur," she muttered, caught off guard by his lusty expression.

"Mmm?" He looked up at her with a soft smile and raised brow. Despite the charming sight, the perspiration that was on his brow and had soaked his shirt did not smell charming in the least.

"You need a bath," Frida told him, managing to keep a straight face even though he had broken out into an incredulous grin at her observation. He stood, holding his side and laughed, hard. "I'm being serious!" She remarked, almost laughing too. "You smell awful."

Arthur gripped her waist and pulled her up against him. "And you're talkin' too much," he quipped before leaning down, placing his dry and rough lips upon hers. Ida froze. But then she leaned into him and felt herself rising up onto her toes. He kissed her. Soft and slow and he tasted like winter, like sticky buns on snowy evenings and crisp morning air.

"Now, let's get you cleaned up," he told her, still breathing heavily with his forehead resting against hers. Frida leaned back against the headboard and watched as he dunked the piece of cloth in a half-full washbasin. Gingerly, he took one of her legs and pushed the dark blue dress up above her knees.

The water stung her raw skin. He glanced up and saw her twisted face. "Sorry," he whispered, thinking that it was the callouses on his rough hands that made it worse. "I know my hands are rough," Art said, reaching for one of her hands, but Frida sat up and lurched forward.

As soon as the last syllable escaped his lips, he found himself interlocked in a kiss. The tender touch they share makes the room around them disappear. There isn't anything else in the world except for them. Something about that feeling made Arthur feel like everything would be okay.

Frida leaned back, her cheeks flushed but her smile was delicate and unabashedly showing her delight. No longer distracted, Arthur finished tending her self-inflicted wounds, wrapping them with pieces torn from the bedsheet. He rose, taking the dirtied cloth and water away.

When he returned to the bed, he held a gold coin in his open hand. On one side was the Pendragon coat of arms, a dragon breathing flames. On the other was the seal of Camelot, a great ash tree growing alongside a river.

"Let's flip a coin," he said. Frida eyed him curiously, not hiding the smile that tugged at her lips. "Heads, I'm yours. Tails, you're mine." He tossed the coin in the air and as it was falling, Ida realized that he hadn't specified which side was which.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Laid out on the field before them were mounds of the dead. Stacked high with kindling and doused with oil. There was a line of archers standing on the hill behind them with burning braziers. Frida could feel their heat on her back, fighting the cold North Wind.

"Nock!" The commander called. Frida reached down and grabbed Art's hand. "Light!" He slipped his fingers between hers and squeezed her hand, but his focus never strayed from the dead.

"Ready!" Creaking wood and stretching silk signaled that the archers had drawn back their bows, taking aim. "Loose!" Flaming arrows sailed overhead. Some of the mounds caught fire, the arrows that had gone astray were extinguished in the damp ground. More rounds of arrows were fired until at last, all the pyres had been lit.

Frida heard some people crying, most though, looked on in silence. She and Art were among the latter. As the corpses burned, Arthur draped his arm around Ida's shoulders and pulled her into him.

That evening there was a feast. It was held within the castle but overflowed into the streets below. Both Frida and Arthur had taken their plates to eat amongst the commons. It was far more comfortable sitting on an overturned bucket in a small tavern than at a high table in the palace.

Those that had shared in the battle gave their own renditions of the night that the Born King returned. The embellishments were enough to make children laugh and Arthur shake his head.

"Frida." It was an old, weathered voice that called her name. Despite the loud atmosphere of the small room, she heard it crystal clear. The Arcanist turned and saw the old baker rising from his seat.

"Edwyn!" Frida called, rushing over to him. He had a splint on his left leg and now supported himself with a walking stick. She knew the blacklegs had done this to him and anger bubbled in her chest. That all faded when he dropped the cane and took the once small orphaned girl into his arms.

"I was worried." He spoke quietly, his withering hand came up to stroke the loose brown curls falling down her back. Frida pressed her cheek against his chest and began to cry. It was not her intent to be the cause of his pain and grief. She clutched onto his rough tunic. "I'm sorry," she murmured over and over. She was sorry Vortigern's men had destroyed his life's hard work, that he had suffered because of her. She was sorry for that night she decided to take shelter from a storm beneath the awning of the bakery.

There was a light on her fingertips, a dull yellowish color and faded as quickly as it had come. Frida hadn't known what she was doing, couldn't control it. Edwyn fell backward, bracing himself on the edge of the wooden counter. That drew the attention of more than a few. "My leg," he whispered, reaching down to touch where the break had once been.

Ida stepped back, bottom lip trembling. She was afraid she had hurt him. "My leg," he said again, struggling to catch his breath. Edwyn looked up at Frida, uncertain. Frightened by the silence, the Arcanist turned and ran. She hadn't heard him tell the people of the tavern that his broken leg had been mended as if by magic.

* * *

Arthur knocked on the door to the rooms that she had found to her liking. Oddly enough, it was one of the smallest rooms in the castle not meant to be a servants'. Just a smidgen bigger than her apartments above the bakery had been. It reminded him of her modesty and humility. Frida had always earned her own.

"Are you decent?" Art asked.

She had been up for some time. Sleep hadn't come to her easily as of late. Even with the downfall of Vortigern, the words he had spoken still were a heavy weight upon her shoulders. "Depends," Frida called, tying her robe closed as she moved toward the door, "I'm decent at sleeping."

On the other side, she could hear him sniggering. Ida drew back the door and looked up at him. After taking in the sight of her dark hair against dewy and fair skin, his expression faltered and fell. "Your sister is preparing to leave," he eventually told her, voice weighed down by his newfound responsibilities.

Her shoulders fell as she let out a soft "oh." She stepped back into the room. Rushing to pick up her dingy frock up off the floor and the blue wool overdress that hung from the back of a chair. Arthur stood in the doorway, but alas, when she began undoing the ties of her robe he turned back and let the door shut.

Frida gripped onto the reigns of the horse her sister had saddled in the morning hours. "Won't you stay?" the Arcanist asked of her. They had only just found each other again, but they had not been given the chance to repair the rift caused by years of separation. They were sisters, yet strangers seemed to be a more apt word to describe them.

The Mage shook her head. "There should not be two wielders of magic within his court." To Frida, that seemed like a lame excuse to justify why she was leaving. "Arthur needs an arcanist, not a mage," she looked ahead past the stone bridge and into the rolling hills.

Eydís took a deep breath and looked back down at her little sister. "He needs _you_." She was to be his Queen. The Mage had foreseen it in a dream. She had also seen Frida's rise to greatness and she was not to play a role in that. Eydís straightened her back and lifted her head. "I'm sorry I could not protect you all those years ago and that I cannot guide you now," her tone was somber.

The horse began moving forward, but Frida chased after the beast. "Eydís!" She called, voice cracking, but the Mage did not look back.

"This is goodbye, sister." Eydís eased the mare into a swift canter and soon disappeared over the horizon. A large brown eagle still lingered though, circling high above the castle.

* * *

After hearing that Eydís had left Arthur went in search of Frida. No one had seen her since the early morning hours. His first instinct was to go to the kitchens. She was notorious for baking whenever she was stressed, or even melancholy. To his dismay, Frida was not in the kitchens. So he began his search anew.

He found her in the gardens, sitting beneath a flowering apple tree with her knees pulled to her chest in the pouring rain. She had been crying, he could tell by her red and puffy eyes and the damp streaks ran down her face. Not saying anything, he sat next to her, draping his arm over her shoulders. Frida turned into his chest almost immediately.

"Frida." He knew the tears she had shed weren't just because of her sister. Ida glanced up at him. "About Edwyn." The baker had come to him after she had fled the feast. He told the Born King that she'd mended his lame leg. His surprise only came from not witnessing her power in many years. Arthur pushed the lock of dark hair that had fallen in front of her eyes back. "He's alright. More than alright, actually. You healed his leg. He doesn't even need a cane."

That made her feel better. She had been too scared to seek out the baker after the incident. Even though it was late summer the rain was cold. It was the type of rain that would make you sick. Frida caught a chill, Art could feel her shiver against him. "We'll catch our death's if we stay out here," he murmured and she nodded.

Arthur led her from the gardens and back toward the hall of the castle that housed the royal chambers. He stopped at the room with the largest and most ornate doors and pushed one of them open to reveal the lavish interior. Frida shook her head, not stepping over the threshold.

"These are the king's chambers," she rebutted. It would not be right for her to take the accommodations meant for him, the Born King.

"And now they're yours," he countered. Ida shook her head, obstinate. "If you're insistent," he started, exasperated with her defiance and stubbornness. "Then I suppose we _could_ share." Something told her that had been his plan all along.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

It was the morning of the coronation. Camelot had been filled with people from near and far. All had come to witness the rise of the Born King. They were celebrating and creating tall tales to be passed on for generations about how King Arthur slew the despot Vortigern and reclaimed his father's throne. Frida had joined them the prior evening, hearing some of the stories being told around fires for herself.

Bedivere, Goosefat, George, Percival, and Wet Stick had gathered in the room of the Round Table, which was still a work of progress. Bedivere had knighted them all as official members of King Arthur's court. Frida only wished that Back Lack could be with them to share in the celebration.

It was Art who knelt now and William who held Excalibur. Goosefat stood straight and repeated the rite that the others had received, moving the sword from his left to right shoulder. "Arise," Bill began with a faint smirk, "King Arthur."

Frida smiled at the ceremony. She sat on the roundtable, bare feet peeking out from beneath a finely crafted burgundy dress. It suited her dark hair and fair skin. "Sir William," Arthur gestured toward Frida and the wide smile that she had worn faded.

She looked on wide-eyed and unsure but stood with a shaky breath. "Take a knee," Goosefat bade. Frida sank down to the floor and clasped her hands together at the pewter belt around her waist. William rested the sword, Excalibur, on her left shoulder and then moved it to the right.

A lump formed in her throat, but when she glanced past Bill to Arthur, it faded. "I dub thee Lady Frida," he decreed to the small gathering, "rise, my lady." Arthur came forward and took both her hands bringing her back to her feet. Unable to contain his glee, he lifted her by the waist and spun the both of them around.

Frida gave a breathy laugh as he pressed his forehead against hers. She had never dreamed that it would come to this. That she would grow to love the Born King of England. But with his roguish smile and unpolished appearance, he was still Arthur the street rat, whom she had always loved.

The doors of the overlook opened. It was time.

Blue bore the crown on a white pillow. Following him were the girls from the brothel. All now wore delicate gowns of soft material with intricate beading and patterns, the necklines trimmed in various furs. He had made sure to take care of the women who had helped raise him, he always had.

Arthur took Frida's arm and led her to the overlook. From the highpoint of the castle, she could see for miles, though what stole her attention was the number of people that had gathered. It hadn't seemed like so many when she was amongst them. She took in a deep breath and stepped aside, joining Maggie and Clarisse.

Bedivere took the crown into his hands and raised it high above Art's head for all to see before placing it on his brow. Arthur took and lifted the sword, Excalibur, above his head and the kingdom of Camelot roared to life.

* * *

In the reception hall was a man, grey of hair and beard, leaning heavily on a twisted sapling. He wore drab-colored robes that blended into the pale stone columns and walls. The man must have been a vagabond, for his clothes were stained and ragged.

Ida had come from the kitchens with a basket of warm dinner rolls in her arms. She was to meet Arthur in the gardens at midday. "Frida," the man remarked, catching her attention as she passed by.

She stopped in her tracks and turned, taking notice of the unannounced visitor and his homely appearance. "May I ask your name, sir?" Frida asked, remembering her courtesies. Edwyn had not raised her to be judging of appearances.

The old man stooped down in genuflection and when he rose, he leaned more heavily against the staff. "Myrddin, some call me, others cambion but you, my dearest," the stranger paused and gave a warm smile, "may call me Merlin."

Footsteps echoed in the vast hall. "Ida?" Arthur called. Unsure of the strange guest she was now speaking to.

Only it was not Frida who answered his call. "Arthur Pendragon," Merlin noted, stepping aside. He did not bow before the King and the warmth in his smile faded. "How's that sword of yours?" It had been Merlin who had forged the Sword from his own staff, a powerful weapon to be used against Mages who had used their powers for nefarious purposes.

Arthur's hand moved to his hip, where Excalibur rested in its scabbard. A flash of uncertainty rose in his eyes and over his expression that the Wizard did not miss. Merlin smiled once more and took another step into the hall. "I have not come for it, or you, my king," the old wizard's gaze returned to Frida, "but I have come to offer my services to aid an untrained Arcanist."

Ida rested her hand on Arthur's forearm, signaling that she would hear the man out. "Walk with an old man and he'll tell you a story." Frida passed the basket to Arthur and offered him a faint smile to ease his worries as she led the Wizard towards one of the greenswards.

"You are the spitting image of your mother," Merlin remarked. The fondness in his voice unmistakable.

Frida couldn't remember her mother very well. The memories had been muddled and twisted. All she truly remembered was the night that Vortigern's men came and slaughtered her village. She remembered seeing her mother hang and then the burning corpse sway in the wind. On rare occasions, she remembered hearing her mother sing sweet songs and lullabies.

The old wizard reached out, deftly touching her cheek. "Morgaine would be proud to see the woman you have become." She swallowed the lump in her throat and resumed walking on the cobbled path.

Frida led him to the greensward, where summer flowers filled the air with their sweet scent. Merlin took a set on a stone bench beneath an apple tree and patted the empty space next to him. She sat, back stiff and hands folded in her lap.

Merlin rested his back against the tree and twiddled his thumbs. "There was a child," he began, "conceived in the spring and birthed in the winter." The Wizard closed his eyes.

He still remembered the night she had come into the world, red and squalling with a tuft of dark hair and light budding in her eyes. "This child had a sister, though, not sired by the same seed. They would grow into different abilities, separated at a young age to have fate rejoin them in dire times."

Merlin held out his ringed hand and within his palm grew a stemless pink rose. The bloom hovered in the air as he began to softly sing. " _The king may sing in his bitter flight, the tree may croon to the vine tonight, but the little snowflake_..." It was the lullaby that her mother used to sing but now she could place the second voice in her memories. The man singing had been Merlin.

A chill crept up her spine. Suddenly, she felt trapped. It was hard to breathe. "You are the last pure arcanist in this world, Frida, and-" Merlin looked up, admiring the white blossoms of the apple tree before turning his admiration back to Frida, "-you are my daughter."

Frida stood, hands balled up into tight fists to hide the glow of her fingertips. It had grown incredibly difficult for her to steady her breathing. There were too many questions racing through her mind, too many emotions for her to decipher which one was dominant.

She backed away from the Wizard who claimed to be her true father, shaking her head. "Why didn't you find me then? When I was running for my life? When I was a child who didn't have a home?" Through the outpouring, her bottom lip began to quiver. This was all too much.

"I did find you," Merlin confided, reaching for one of her trembling hands. "I walked into a bakery one afternoon and saw a little girl standing behind the counter, smiling, with a man that had grown to love her." He took the light from her hand and juggled it on his own fingertips. "I knew that Edwyn could give you a better life than I ever could."

She hugged herself and backed away, the imprisoned feeling gave way to ire. "So you left me," Frida deadpanned.

Merlin shook his head. "I never left you. You just didn't see me." The wizard's appearance shifted to an old man that had come regularly to the bakery. He continued to change faces, all of which Frida recognized. He had been the old widower that came weekly to the bakery for bread and pies. He was the poor beggar on the street corner that watched as she went to the market. He was the merchant who provided her with a copy of the Cosmos of Light. He had always been near, watching over her from a distance.

"If you allow me," Merlin began, retaking his true form, "I can teach you to be great. I can transform you into a butterfly."

Frida didn't want greatness, she didn't want to be transformed into a butterfly. She was content in her life as a caterpillar. The Arcanist lifted her chin and kept a level gaze with the wizard. "I think you should leave." It surprised her that her voice could remain unwavering. But she did not appreciate his sudden appearance, or that he was attempting to meddle in her life when everything had come together so well.

"Should you choose this path, you already know how to find me," Merlin gave his daughter a cryptic smile. The Wizard rose from the stone bench and showed himself out as she disappeared farther into the gardens.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

FRIDA did not want Merlin's help, but she came to accept that the silver arm ring left on the stone bench beneath the apple tree was from the Wizard. It was a thin cuff no wider than one of her fingers, decorated with a runic script and punched holes. She tucked it into her apron and didn't think much about its significance.

The library had a plethora of information about the mystical arts. Vortigern may have sought to be the sole warlock in the world, but he hoarded a wealth of knowledge about the magical arts in the library. That had been how Frida spent most of her time as of late. Especially after Merlin's visit.

She wished to learn how to control her abilities, but she would do so on her own terms. She would not go crawling back to the father that had deserted her as a child and was too cowardly to show himself once she was older.

Frida had read over the same page of a single manuscript a dozen times before she backed away from the book and to the pedestal on which a silver goblet sat. It had been filled with water. The books had told her water was free-flowing and the easiest element to manipulate.

With her hand hovering over the water goblet, Frida closed her eyes and tried to reach out. Silently willing the water to change. Arcanists were creators and shapers. That was the nature of the arcane art. It was not destructions. Nor was it manipulation.

A long minute passed. Nothing felt different. Ida looked into the goblet with dismay, it was still filled with clean, crisp water. Dejected but undeterred, she returned to the old script to reaffirm that she had at least done something right.

She returned to the pedestal and repeated the steps. Another trial. Another failure. Now growing frustrated, Frida dropped into one of the high-back chairs and sulked.

The arm ring in the pocket of her apron felt more like a chunk of lead. Something about the piece of silver called to her. Frida set the bracelet in the palm of her hand and eyed it. Curious and skeptical.

Taking a long, slow breath she decided to wear it. After all, it was a very pretty and well-crafted piece. Nothing extraordinary happened when she slipped it around her right wrist, though now it didn't feel as heavy as it had in her hand or pocket.

Rising from her seat, Frida returned to the open tome. She could only suffer one more failure for the day. Hand extended over the goblet, the Arcanist breathed in slipped into her state of silent focus. A chill ran down her spine. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel warmth in the tips of her fingers. A tingle sensation that was oddly familiar.

The water in the silver goblet was gone. In its place was ice. Frida reached forward and ran her fingertip around the metal. It was cold and solid, just as ice should be. Shocked at the success, she shrieked.

A moment later the doors of the library were thrown open. Arthur was out of breath, and worry had etched itself on his features. His hand rested uneasily on the hilt of Excalibur. "Arthur!" Frida exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her skin at his sudden entrance.

"What-?" He looked around the library but found there was no one else there. It was just the two of them. A bright shade of red rushed up to her cheeks. She hadn't meant to frighten him. Frida glanced back at the open book and silver goblet. "I was practicing," she admitted.

When her concentration had broken, the ice within the cup had returned to water. Arthur stepped around her and stood on the opposite side of the pedestal. "Show me?" He asked.

This time when Ida closed her eyes, she thought of the pale sand that sometimes lined the streets of Londinium after the sea merchants had come and unloaded their spoils. She kept her eyes shut and reached out with light budding at her fingertips. Before Art's eyes, the water turned to sand, but it didn't stop there.

The goblet of white sand slowly shifted into a solid form. From the sediment, she had made a stone. Arthur dumped it from the cup and into his hand. It felt like sandstone, even down to the gritty texture. Frida didn't let her concentration break even though she'd opened her eyes. He dropped the stone back into the cup and then the goblet was filled with water once more.

Frida stepped back and let out a long breath. The display had made her feel exhausted. "I can't lift a mountain from the earth yet," she said, shrugging, "but it's a start." Art broke out into a wide grin, unable to contain his elation with her sudden success. He enveloped her with his arms and set his chin on the crown of her head. Ida clutched at the material of his cream tunic and smiled into his chest.

* * *

Time passed quickly now. England prospered under Arthur's rule and Frida grew more confident in her abilities as an Arcanist. While great feats were still beyond her reach, she had managed to coax an oak sapling to grow ten feet overnight.

Londinium was not so dreary as it had once been either. The bakery had been rebuilt and though Frida and Art offered Edwyn a room in the castle and position in the village just below the castle to have a shop, he refused. His whole life had been spent in Londinium. He couldn't imagine leaving or a life without flour dusting his skin and clothes.

Frida visited often and still made her rounds in the city when she came, bringing bread and pastries to the orphanage and the elderly.

That happened to be where Art and Frida were heading on horseback. Last time they'd taken the river barge, but this time Art insisted that he wanted to take the scenic route and travel the worn forest paths.

They stopped in a clearing to share a small lunch before returning to the road. "I still don't like horses," Frida remarked as Art helped her down from the saddle. He rolled her eyes and turned back to his own mount to retrieve a waterskin from the saddlebags.

A deer had come into the clearing as well. The creature walked around the horses, sniffing the air before it began to graze on tall stalks of grass. Ida looked up at the green canopy but then there was a strange feeling in her gut that she couldn't explain. Art had been trying to pet the deer, but it suddenly bolted and the horses started.

"Arthur!" Frida jumped in front of him and extended her arms. Inches from her neck and his heart an arrow turned to stone fell on the leaf covered ground. Arthur pulled Excalibur free from its sheath, but she laid her hand over his arm. There wouldn't be a need for battle today.

When Ida closed her eyes, she could sense someone hiding behind the trunk of a large oak tree. With a slow, deep breath and no small amount of focus, she became the tree. The Arcanist reached down and gripped onto the stone arrow. Simultaneously, the tree mimicked her actions, wrapping newly formed thin, wiry branches around a man.

Frida rose and threw the stone behind her. Seconds later there was screaming as the would be kingslayer was thrown through the air, breaking branches as he fell. The dark, hooded figure landed naught even a foot from where they stood, groaning as he rubbed his draw shoulder.

"Who are you?" Arthur demanded, pointing Excalibur at the man's neck.

The hunter laughed and used his bow to help him stand. He was no longer a threat. All his arrows had been broken in their quiver and he'd be dead before he could draw the dagger on his belt. "Gwaine." He stooped down into a low bow then rose, holding onto his ribs. "Apologies, my king," the hunter began, "you frightened off the deer that arrow was meant for."

Arthur glanced to his side at Frida. Her fingers were still curled to call up the power of the forest. The Born King glanced over Gwaine's shoulder to where he had been perched. Even if they hadn't of scared off the deer, it was an impossible and impressive shot.

Art slid Excalibur back into its sheath and looked down at the broken arrows that surrounded the hunter's landing. He turned and lifted Frida onto the saddle of her dusty brown mare and mounted his own white steed. "Come to Camelot in two weeks' time," he said, glancing back down at the man who'd spoiled their plans for a quick lunch in a peaceful glade.

The hunter's face paled and his gaze, once confident and amused, turned toward the ground. "My king, truly, this was an accident," he paused and fumbled to find something else that could strengthen his claim to innocence, "I fought with you against Vortigern-"

Art held up his hand and the hunter fell silent. "You shot that arrow from over a hundred yards," the king remarked, "I can only think of one other archer that can do that." He gave the hunter a final nod then eased his horse into a quick trot. Frida followed, eager to pick Art's mind and learn what he had in store for this hunter who called himself Gwaine.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

THE baker's assistant was in the castle kitchens, arms deep in flour and dough when a young boy ran past wearing a knit navy cap. "Blue!" She called, noting he was dragging a blunted sword that was almost as big as him. The boy turned around, red-faced and out of breath.

"Sorry," he mumbled, walking backward toward the door.

Three more steps and he would bolt. "Get back here!" Frida called hands on her hips. It wasn't good for him to be running around with a sword, blunted or not, let alone so early in the morning.

"I'm gonna be late!" The boy lamented as he trudged back to where Ida was kneading a batch of sourdough bread.

Despite her relationship with the King, Frida still busied herself in the kitchens. She made almost all the sweets for any important events. "Late for what?" She inquired, wiping her hands off in a stained, patched apron.

Blue looked down at the training sword he held in his hand. It was heavy and off-balance, but he had to start somewhere. "The boss is teachin' me how to use one," he remarked.

Ida didn't like to think about Blue learning how to fight. Not after everything that had happened. She hoped that the new world Art was building fighting wouldn't be necessary, but until that was certain, she supposed it wasn't altogether a bad thing.

"Here-" Frida handed the boy one of the warm apple pastries that had just been dipped in a cinnamon-honey glaze, they were to be served later at the council meeting "-you won't do much learning on an empty stomach." Blue took a large bite, wiping the sticky glaze that trickled down his chin away with the sleeve of his roughspun tunic.

She poured a glass of freshly squeezed apple juice and passed it to the boy. He took two large gulps of the juice and took another bite of the pastry. Ida crouched down in front of the boy and looked him in the eye. "And tell Art if I find a single scratch or bruise on you then he's going to get an earful," she told him with a smile, tapping the tip of his nose with a flour coated finger.

Blue grinned, his rosy cheeks stuffed with the sweet autumn pastry.

* * *

The archer from the woods arrived in the late afternoon. Heavy rains had made the journey take longer than anticipated. Water still beaded from the heavy leather cloak resting on his shoulders, puddling on the pale stone floor around worn boots.

"Gwaine," Arthur greeted before the squire could announce the arrival. All pretenses of their first encounter in the woods were gone. Ida stepped forward, hands clasped before the pewter belt that hung low around her waist. A fitting accessory given the deep blue dress she wore. The archer smiled at her, though he quickly averted his eyes to the person who stood at his side.

Next to the archer was a woman, though it had taken Frida several seconds to discern that. She wore a long dark green cloak and the same attire as her companion with her golden hair pulled back into a tight braid. Gwaine shifted on his feet and motioned toward the woman. "This is my wife, Gayle." The huntress bristled at the name and lowered the hood of her cloak. "Our hunting party calls her Galahad, though," he amended.

Arthur looked between Frida and Galahad. The two women seemed to be opposite sides of the same coin. Both were dangerous. The danger that Frida posed though, was hidden behind a sweet smile and soft façade. "You have some skill with a blade?" Art asked, noticing the sword on her hip.

Gayle met his gaze with bright green eyes. "Aye, my king, I was raised with a sword in hand." Her gaze shifted to Frida, curious to know if this was really the Arcanist that people spoke of. In truth, she'd expected an enchantress given her husband's description, not the demure woman who stood at the King's side.

Behind them, the smell of herb-roasted quail filled the air. Art smiled and waved their guests over to the table in the main hall where the evening meal was being laid out. "C'mon," he announced, "let's eat." Negotiations tended to go better when food and spirits were involved.

* * *

Frida paced the length of the large bedchamber as she wrung the remaining dampness from her hair "So?" Art asked. She stopped and turned to Arthur, who was reclined on the bed, hands folded behind his head.

He had told her of his grand plan. To assemble a troupe of trusted allies to maintain the order and justice within England and neighboring realms. It was a good plan.

Finding the right people, on the other hand, would be no easy feat.

Ida looked down at her feet and the small puddle near one of her toes from the last drops of water in her dark hair. "I trust them." It almost sounded like she was loathed to admit it, but after having dinner with the husband and wife duo she could not deny they were decent, honest, hard-working people.

"Since you approve," Art started, rolling onto his side to fully look upon her, "if everything remains in order, I'll have him knighted in a month's time." The archer would have a duty to the Crown then, to maintain the law in the King's forests and report back to court.

Frida turned to the dark wood vanity and picked up a wooden comb. "And what of Gayle?" She asked, working the tangles from her dark hair. Ida had appreciated the company of another woman, but the huntress was not meant to wear silk and parade around the court. She was her husband's equal.

Arthur's brows furrowed. "We can name her as a Lady?" Frida looked at his reflection, shaking her head. That was not an acceptable answer. It did not seem fair that out of the pair Gwaine would be the one knighted only because he was a man.

He seemed to be able to read her thoughts, for Arthur let out a long sigh and rolled back onto his back. "If she accepts the offer then we will have gained two knights instead of one. Gwaine and Galahad."

Once her hair was free of tangles, Ida plaited the damp strands and tied off the end with a thong of dyed leather. It would soon be time for a trim. With her hair reaching her lower back it was the longest it'd been since Edwyn let her start helping in the bakery.

Frida pulled up the skirt of her pale nightgown and climbed onto the bed and atop Arthur, pressing her hands to his chest. He smiled. It was a rarity for him to see her in this state. But moments later his smile faded as he noted her contemplative expression. Arthur ran his hands up her bare arms and grasped her shoulders. "What's that look for?" He questioned, clear blue gaze suspicious.

"I've been thinking," Ida started.

He paled. "Oh no."

She rolled her eyes and swatted his chest in a playful manner. "What if we opened the castle to orphaned children?" Camelot's castle seemed empty. There were few rooms occupied with the girls and appointed nobles, but the vast majority of space was left unused.

Art hadn't been expecting that.

"We were lucky to have someone take us in-" Frida brushed her fingers over the scars on his neck and face "-but others aren't as lucky as we were. Londinium isn't a kind city to orphans, even now." It was true. There were always problems in the larger cities. Even his white cloaks couldn't stop every criminal act.

It had been by luck that two people had been willing to take them in and by chance that they had run into one another on the streets. Now though, they had the power and will to shape the history of England.

Arthur sat up and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against him. "I think we can do that," he replied, lips brushing against the pulse of her neck. Frida smiled. He rolled them over into the center of the featherbed. His hand cradled her left cheek. Ida's warm cognac eyes were opened wide as she met his soft gaze.

Art shifted his weight and leaned forward to press his lips to hers. She tasted of honey and mulled wine. Nothing could compare. He sighed and pulled away, not quite understanding how a woman like her could have fallen in love with a street rat like him.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

FRIDA'S idea to open the castle up to the orphans of Londinium and England went over well with the growing council. Arthur, Tristan, and she had all been orphaned. It had been by luck that someone had taken them in before the streets devoured them.

Once the arrangements and dates had been set, Wet Stick had seen to riding to the cities near to make the announcements first hand. Goosefat Bill began taking inventory of the empty rooms. They would easily be able to house one-hundred children. They would be fed, clothed, trained in essential crafts, and learn the ways of the court.

Twenty children with rags for clothes and dirty faces were huddled into the foyer of the castle. The youngest looked to be no more three, the oldest bordering on ten. They all had a look of apprehension about them after glancing around at the fine tapestries and polished arms that adorned the walls. It made them look and feel out of place. A sentiment that Ida would have shared if she were placed in their position.

Frida stepped forward. "Please! Don't be frightened." On her arm was a basket of freshly made pastries. She began passing them out, smiling. "This can be your home now-" she motioned behind her toward the main hall "-if you wish it to be."

One of the older boys among the group stepped forward, he hadn't taken a single bite from the berry pastry. There was a growing look of suspicion on his ruddy face that matched the color of his close-clipped hair. "Ain't no catches are there?"

Ida shook her head. "No." There was a gleam in her eye that all of the children seemed to understand. She had been just like them. An orphan. They all took her word and knew that things were about to change. "Follow me," she announced, waving them along, "you can all start by picking rooms." Tristan fell into step at her side, and the two could not help but exchange a wide grin. They had turned out alright and now other ragamuffins would that opportunity as well.

Ida fluffed her pillow and drew back the covers on her half of the bed. Arthur was doing the same. "You didn't come to greet our new guests," she noted with a tinge of disappointment in her tone. She knew he had been meeting with the high council, but the meeting would have ended before the boys and girls arrived.

"No," Art replied, "but I watched from the shadows." He had stood behind one of the stone pillars and watched, thinking it best that hers was the first face they were seeing.

"Why?" Frida asked, returning to the vanity to brush her hair. She watched his reaction in the mirror's reflection.

"Because-" he shrugged "-you're better with kids."

A braid of dark brown hair was draped over her shoulder, falling to her waist. It was the longest Arthur had ever seen it and his fingers always itched to run through the soft locks when it was unbound. Frida sat on the edge of the mattress and brushed the bits of dirt from her bare feet before joining Arthur beneath the sheet and sewn pelts of fur.

Art took one of her hands and began to draw letters and shapes into her palm. She closed her eyes and relaxed, letting out a breathy sigh. "You told me you used to mess up some of the pastries on purpose-" Art turned his head toward her "-that way when the children came running into the bakery pennies short you could still give them a sweet."

A lazy smile crossed over her tired features. "I told you that years ago," Ida remarked.

Arthur moved closer and took both her hands and held them close to his chest. "I know," he breathed before placing a soft kiss to her brow. She sighed, shifting onto her side and he pulled her to him, tucking her head beneath his chin, arms encasing her waist. This was how he wished every day to end.

* * *

Arthur had begun disappearing before dawn and returning in the late evening for nearly an entire month. When questioned of his whereabouts, his responses were always vague and dodgy. But his hands were becoming rougher and more often than not he was picking splinters from his fingers. It was clear he was working on something besides the Round Table.

Eventually, he was prepared to show and explain what he had been working on. The large hall that held the throne of England now had a second, almost identical chair sitting next to it. Frida ran her hand over the ornately carved armrests and high back. It was a wonderful piece of craftsmanship upholstered with red and gold damask fabric. "What's this for?" She asked.

"For the day I have a Queen," he answered. Arthur stepped up onto the raised platform and took Ida's hands. His were trembling with a hundred small scabs. She had never seen him act nervous. The cocky boy that rose up the ranks of Londinium's street hustlers had vanished. Ida rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, breaking him from his trance and subduing the way his stomach churned. "I know it's not a ring or even a crown, but-"

He didn't have time to oust the entire question before Frida leaped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Yes," she breathed before kissing him soundly.

Art felt a fool for having ever listened to the small part of his mind that thought she'd reject him. He pressed his forehead against hers and reached to push a loose strange of dark hair behind her ear. "You don't even know what I was askin'." The laugh that escaped his lips was breathy.

Frida wore a large grin and had to stop herself from laughing too. "A lucky guess," she mused.

* * *

The Arcanist walked the high stone bridge that spanned over the river below and connected Camelot to the forest road. There were still repairs to be made, and she had only just learned to mold stone. A process that had taken her longer than anticipated to become adept in. Unlike water or air, stone and earth was stubborn and not easily convinced to take another form.

Frida stopped at a section of broken railing. Some pieces remained swept to the edges of the bridge, others had been lost to the river. She picked up a hunk of grey stone and began to work it with her mind and will as a potter would form wet clay. Other pieces began to move and fall in place like a puzzle.

A solitary rider appeared in the distance, but as the rider drew closer Frida could easily name the man from rumors alone. He had pale silver hair with eyes of bright amber that resembled fire. A fitting appearance to match the red and black dragon emblazoned on his soft grey surcoat.

"Caradoc," Frida said with a smile, "the Prince of Dragons." She had heard the tales of his valor on the field of battle, but as a second son, he had no claims to his father's title, nor any other luxury that his elder brother had.

"No longer a prince," he stated, but the finely sewn clothes and his manners said otherwise. "I have renounced my title in favor of building a life elsewhere." The line of his father was well secured in the hands of his brother and nephews. Caradoc dismounted the black destrier and held the beast firmly by the reigns. "All the dragons are dead anyway," he noted.

Ida had believed dragons to be a myth. A story told to frighten young children and fool them into behaving. But in the depths of the castle, she had discovered a hoard of dragon skulls and a pile of shining silver scales in the process of being wrought into armor. "Maybe-" her eyes flashed up to meet his "-but their descendants live amongst us."

The Arcanist stepped back and reworked the final section of the bridge that could be repaired for the day. Caradoc watched in awe as the stone once fallen from the guardrail was melded together with what remained upright. Amazed by the display, he ran his hand along the repaired stone, marveling at how smooth the seam and transition was. "You have come to seek a place at the Table," Ida announced, taking a guess at the purpose behind his arrival.

He looked up at Frida with a wry smile. "Is it so obvious?"

She returned his smile and nodded toward the city of Camelot. "I'll take you to see Art."


	20. Chapter Nineteen

FRIDA couldn't say she was surprised to see her father standing in the Great Hall, steps away from the two thrones of Camelot. She turned around and knelt before the group of children that had been following her for a day in the lower city. "I need you all to run along." The gentle command was met with an array of disappointed expressions.

Ida smiled and passed the basket of baked goods she'd been carrying to the oldest of the group. "I'll make it up to you all tomorrow, but for now go find Tristan." She sent them back the way they'd just come. Rising, Frida smoothed down her skirt and clasped her hands in front of the wide leather belt around her waist.

"Merlin," she greeted, masking her displeasure behind the decorum of a court lady.

The Wizard turned. He was happy to know she was well looked after. "Word has traveled that your skills have excelled," he noted, leaning forward on his twisted staff. The evidence of those skills had manifested in the repairs that would have taken months, if not years, to perform without an arcanist.

Her smile was forced. "Words are often nothing more than wind," Ida remarked.

Merlin gauged his daughter's unyielding expression and found himself thinking that she would make a good queen. "Why are you here?" Frida asked, tired of the back-and-forth blather.

He bowed his head. "To offer my services once again." It was a genuine offer, but Frida found it to be tainted by her resentment of him.

"I do not want your help," she gritted out, crossing her arms.

His gaze fell upon the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Yet you've already accepted it." Ida glanced down at the piece of jewelry and knew that her suspicions had come to fruition. The Wizard took her hand and ran his fingers over the stamped runes. "It was your mothers," he explained with a gentle and longing tone. "I crafted it as a way to channel her power."

Morgaine had been an extraordinary arcanist, but she kept her powers a secret and rarely exercised them to their true potential. It should have been Morgaine that taught Frida the ways, but Vortigern and his men had slaughtered them all. Upon learning of his beloved's death, Merlin had been wrought with anger. She had the ability to save herself and smite down Vortigern and his puppets. Instead, she had sacrificed herself to ensure her daughters would live.

In time, the Wizard would tell Frida more about the mother she had no memory of. "Three days, Frida," he told her in a soft tone tinged with sadness. "Three days and three nights. That is all it would take for me to show you."

Ida measured his words carefully but gave no response. Instead, she kindly asked the Wizard to show himself out.

The echo of swords clashing together filled the gardens. Camelot had a traditional training yard, but Blue and Arthur preferred the small space between the apple and pear trees of the garden.

Ida took a seat beneath the shade of one of the apple trees and watched the two scuffle. In truth, she was trying to forget the offer that Merlin had made. Eydís had spoken of her training by Merlin's hand. She had gone to the Darklands, and it had taken months before she could call herself a Mage. An orb of light grew within one of Frida's palms, she juggled it between both her hands while watching Art and Blue.

Blue swung his blunt sword as hard as he could, but Art countered the stroke and stepped back. Praising the boy's form. That didn't stop the seeds of frustration from being planted at having never landed a single blow against Arthur. The boy stepped back, dropped his sword, and then charged toward the King before he could raise the sword in defense.

The impact knocked Arthur off balance and to his bum, and then Blue was atop him and they were both laughing. Frida smiled. It was good to see Blue happy. After a few minutes of roughhousing, the two parted and rose.

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow and passed his the training sword off to Blue, ruffling his growing hair and sending him on his way. The boy was a quick learner. He reminded Frida of a young Arthur, headstrong.

He sat next to her beneath one of the apple trees.

Frida picked up one of the fallen apples and willed it to become a stone cup. The transformation occurred with ease and caught Art off guard. He was always amazed to see what she could accomplish. She added a handful of grass blades and forced it to turn to water. Ida handed the cup of water to Arthur. He downed the cool liquid is a single gulp and set the cup aside. A moment later it had turned back into a ripe, red apple.

"He is the only one who understands your gifts," Art commented. He'd overheard Frida and Merlin's conversation that morning and knew it had put her in a sour mood. He couldn't blame her for being upset and angry, but he was the only other person that could help her metamorphosis.

"He left me," she responded. She was a woman grown but knowing her father had left her to run for her life as a child was a tender wound that had not healed. Knowing he could have revealed himself to her sooner reopened the wound.

"And that is something that cannot easily be forgiven," he acknowledged.

Frida drew in a deep breath. "You think I should go," she stated.

Arthur nodded. "I do."

She lifted his hand and traced the raised scars along his knuckles. "Then come with me."

"You know I can't," he reprimanded, "the trade council." The trade council had been summoned and planned for more than a month. English nobles from all the kingdoms would converge to make pacts and speak of taxes. Goosefat and Bedivere would be his voices, but he was still expected to attend.

"You're the King," she reminded him, a hint of a smirk working its way onto her lips, "tell them they will have to wait." It was selfish of her to ask him to abandon his duties, and she knew that.

Arthur leaned his head back against the tree and laughed. "If only it were that simple." If it had been any other meeting, he would have had, but this was the first trade meeting of his reign and he still had much to learn. "I will ride with you for half-a-day," he decided. That was the least he could do. "I can send Caradoc with you too if you don't wish to be alone with Merlin."

Caradoc, the Dragon Prince of the Isle of Mora, had been knighted and granted a position at the Round Table. Gwaine had taken the position offered to him, and his wife Gayle chose to be known as Galahad to the court. Frida had been the one to appoint her as a member of the Round Table. Those two came when called upon or if issues arose, but they mostly kept to the forests with their hunting party.

* * *

Three horses had been saddled in the courtyard below the castle entrance. Two white and one black. Arthur helped Frida into the saddle of her white palfrey before mounting his own horse. Caradoc joined them moments later, fitting a bow and quiver of arrows to his saddle.

The sun was rising as they crossed the bridge into the bordering forest. Frida enjoyed the wilderness but was more comfortable in a city like Londinium and Camelot. Just the right amount of solitude was a good thing, but too often the only difference between an antidote and poison was the dose.

Arthur and Frida spoke about the children they'd taken under their care. The oldest boy, Gordie, was fourteen and Bedivere had expressed his interest in naming the boy has his squire.

Wet Stick and Percival worked with many of the boys and a few girls, teaching them archery and the basics of sword fighting. Frida and the kitchen workers taught whoever was willing to learn the basic skills needed to cook and bake.

Caradoc helped where and when he could, but he frequented Londinium to keep the peace and keep a watchful eye on the baker, Edwyn, per Frida's request.

At midday, Arthur stopped. It was time he turned back. He leaned over in the saddle and brushed his lips over hers. "You can do this, darlin'," he breathed before kissing her forehead. She gave a small nod and a smile. Art turned his horse around and looked over his shoulder as she and Caradoc continued forward.

It was almost sundown when Frida bid them stop. She could feel they'd arrived deep in her bones. She slipped from the saddle of her palfrey and strode forward with Caradoc following behind her.

Merlin stood in the center of a forest clearing ringed by great ash trees. He held out his trembling hand toward Frida. Hesitant but resolved, Frida placed her hand within the Wizards.

The world around them began spinning, faster and faster until the green blur of the forest turned into darkness.

Ida heard the soft sound of running water and dared to open her eyes. It was dark and fuggy. The only light came from glittering spheres of blue-white light hanging above. Her eyes soon adjusted to the dim light and she realized it was a cave.

The Wizard stamped his staff on the rocky floor and with the twisted roots came a soft purple light. He was smiling, gaze wandering upward to the ceiling. Frida let out a soft sigh and looked at her father. "Let us begin," he told her and the energy and power of this fantastical place overtook her.


	21. Chapter Twenty

CARADOC woke early on the morning of the fourth day when a drop of dew slipped off a leaf and onto his cheek.

Frida had been with Merlin for three days and three nights. Taken to a land beyond the forest clearing. He stoked the small fire by his bedroll, sparks flew upward and a flame jumped into the air. A drop of grease from the night's rabbit had begun to crackle on a hot stone.

The Dragon Prince rose to his feet and began tending to the horses. From the corner of his eye, he saw it. In the center of clearing ringed with ash trees, there was a budding light. A speck that quickly expanded in all directions, growing brighter. Caradoc shielded his eyes and felt the wave of air hit him in the chest before the thunderous eruption shook the earth and trees.

Frida lay in a circle of burned and smoking grass. "My lady!" Caradoc knelt at her side, searching for the Wizard but found it was only the two of them. He touched her cheek, fearful that she would not respond. Slowly, her eyes, the same color of freshly turned soil, opened. Her traveling companion gave a relieved sigh. "Are you all right?"

She sat up under her own volition and brushed the soot and ash from her hands. "Yes," Ida replied, gaze turning upward to find a grey sky hanging above.

Caradoc pulled her off the ground and steadied her shoulders with both his hands. There was a distant and cold look in her eyes that hadn't been there before. It was disconcerting to see the hollowness of her usual kind and vibrant expression.

"If you are willing to ride, we may return before sundown." She nodded. He saddled both their horses and lifted Frida onto the saddle of her white palfrey.

It was well past noon when Ida began to wobble in her saddle and not long after that Caradoc had caught her before she collided with the ground. He eased her to the ground. A sheen of sweat had beaded up on her brow, yet she shivered even in the warm afternoon.

She didn't want to open her eyes. All Ida wanted was a soft, warm bed. The journey she had taken with Merlin was a long and strenuous one. "You are tired," Caradoc told her, his hand resting on her forehead, "and fevered."

Frida did not object to the short pause in their travels, though she was eager to return to Camelot, and to Art. "I can make it," she assured him, forcing herself to stand. The Dragon Prince tied her white palfrey behind his black destrier and lifted Ida into his saddle before mounting behind her. He couldn't have her sliding off a horse and splitting her head open like a melon.

The two returned alone at sundown on the fourth day of the quest. The portcullis lifted at their approach. Few people lined the streets of the lower city at this hour. Most were within taverns or their own homes. It made the trip through the winding roads leading to the castle gates quicker.

Arthur, Wet Stick, and Blue sat around the table pushed to the side in the main hall mulling over bowls of steaming beef stew. It had dawned on all three of them that everything was rather dull without Frida. She managed to breathe warmth and life into the cold, stone walls.

Blue had only just asked a question about when she'd be back when the oak and stone doors swung open. Caradoc strode forward cradling Ida in his arms. Arthur rose to his feet instantly and was moving toward her. "She needs rest," Caradoc told the King while placing her within his arms.

Art tilted his head in the direction of the table. "There's plenty of stew left." Caradoc gave a grateful nod and took a seat on the bench opposite of Tristan. Arthur was already gone.

Helga, the eldest girl of the orphaned children who had asked to be Frida's lady in waiting, was tidying up Ida's vanity and filling a half-full vial of rose water. The suddenness of the chamber doors being thrown open started her. "M'lord!" She immediately took to the King's side, sputtering on about what she could do to help.

Art looked over his shoulder at the girl as he laid Frida on the bed. "It's all right, Helga," he told her with a soft smile that soothed her worries, "I can look after her."

She lowered her head and nodded. "Yes, m'lord," Helga smoothed down her skirt with trembling hands and quickly left the room. Arthur sank to his knees next to the feather mattress and gave a heavy sigh. Somehow, it felt like this was his fault. Frida hadn't wanted to go with Merlin, but he had pressured her.

He ran his hand down his face and rose from the floor to fetch a washbasin and cloth. She was travel worn with dirt under neatly trimmed nails and speckling her pale face. Art knew Frida was not one to enjoy being caked in sweat and nature. Though she didn't mind being covered in flour and sugar.

Arthur pulled one of his tunics free from a tangled mess of clothes in a half-closed drawer. He sat it on the nightstand and began to unlace the bodice of her dress. The pale blue material piled on the floor next to her riding shoes. Once on, the shirt hung to her knees. Had he known how to braid, he would've fixed her hair to pass the time.

Evening became night. Blue had come to check on her, so did Wet Stick and Caradoc. He told them she was resting, and her fever was beginning to break. There was no need to fret over her. She was strong.

Arthur didn't sleep. He couldn't sleep. He hadn't slept in four days. Pulling a blanket from the bed, Art wrapped it around his shoulders and sat on the short balcony overlooking his kingdom. The moon did not shine, but the stars did, like small white gems gleaming on a dark canvas.

A soft groan as the sun broke over the horizon stirred him from a restless trance. He almost tripped over his own feet in haste to return to Frida's side. She was stirring, close to waking. Ida rolled toward him and opened one of her eyes. Art smiled and brushed the hair from her face. "Hey, darlin'." He lifted one of her hands and kissed the back of it. "Are you all right?"

Frida nodded and the words on her tongue were stalled by the abrupt sound of her growling stomach. She hadn't eaten while she was with Merlin. She didn't need to. Arthur broke out into a smile and leaned forward, giving her forehead a quick kiss. "I'll be back."

There was something different about Frida that he noticed immediately like she had recognized and accepted the full extent of her arcane power. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

She took a large bite from a warm piece of sourdough bread and looked up. "I wasn't looking for anything to begin with, Art," she reminded him. Ida turned her right palm up and let a dancing lilac flame coalesce and from the fire emerged a gem. White and shining, like it had captured pure starlight. She plucked the gem from her hand and passed it to him.

After a moment of inspection, she let it turn to dust within his palm. Arthur looked up from the shining dust and let it fall to the floor. The easy of the transformation had taken him off-guard. "But I have gained more control."

Arthur was glad to know she had garnered more confidence in her abilities. "How did the trade council go?" She asked, taking another forkful of scrambled eggs.

He shook his head and finished buttering the slice of bread he had. "I'll tell you about it later." There wasn't much to say about it. The leaders agreed to continue free trade without obstruction, it was the best path to ensure everyone prospered. She pushed the empty plate away and ate the last bite of bread. "You're still tired," Art noted.

"So are you," she challenged. He found there was no use in trying to prove her wrong. The sun may have risen, but Arthur and Frida were returning to bed.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

ARTHUR sat at the reading table within their chambers, brows knitted together in the candlelight as he read over the letter for a second time. Few things could make him appear so terse since coming into his father's throne. Frida paused her attempt to fashion a bowl of sand into jewels. "Is it the Vikings?" She asked.

He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in the chair with arms crossed. Dealings with the Vikings was always a tricky matter. They were seafaring people with a love of raiding. Always eager to draw swords. "They've gotten word of the Table and wish to add two members to represent the Danes and Nords."

There had been minor disputes between the Northmen shortly after his coronation. Concern about treaties and deals that had been made under Vortigern's rule. They had all been settled without violence thus far. Despite Arthur's dislike for their barbaric ways, he was able to appease them and appeal to their humanity.

Frida sat on the edge of the table and took the letter from his hands, reading it over for herself. It was scrawled in a mixture of the common tongue and runic letters. After a moment, she set the letter aside and reached for one of his hands. "Let them swear fealty," Frida started, "we've had no quarrel with them since Greybeard surrendered his claim on the seas and slaves."

A cool summer wind blew through the open lanai, rustling the small fire in the hearth. "If we accept their envoys then it will leave one seat at the Table." Arthur had intended for twelve to fit comfortably around the Round Table, more could be added if it was necessary. Twelve had always seemed to be a lucky number for him, though.

He rose from the chair and stood in front of her, fingertips brushing over a delicate and fair cheek. "You're the best counselor I have," Art commented, leaning forward to press his face into the crook of her neck.

Ida pushed her fingers through his hair, giving a soft tug, so he was forced to meet her soft gaze. "But now you must _listen_ to my counsel," she reminded him.

* * *

Frida looked down at the piece of parchment and felt her heart rise into her throat as she read the words again. Arthur took another bite from a golden apple and watched as her expression twisted and fell. She looked up from the scroll, tears gathering in her eyes. "Edwyn is sick," Ida announced.

The baker that'd taken her in was stubborn. She'd visited countless times, hoping she could convince him to come to stay in Camelot. He could bake in the castle kitchens or have a shop in the city beneath the castle. Edwyn insisted on remaining in Londinium. It was the city where he was born, raised, and worked. Soon it could be the city he died in too.

"You should go," Art told her.

She threw the piece of parchment into the hearth and stepped back, hugging herself. "I wish he would come to stay here," Ida confessed, wiping the tears from her eyes. He was becoming frail and sickly.

Arthur came to stand behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. "You should rest, Frida," he said, quietly. She craned her neck and he leaned forward, pressing a short kiss to her lips. "I'll get everything ready for you to leave with Wet Stick." He couldn't go with her this time. They were expecting the Viking envoys any day now.

She and Tristan had left at first light. Arthur had seen them off on the docks. It was a two-day journey by river barge, shorter than riding through the countryside. Frida passed the time making shapes with the dark water at the rear of the barge. Wet Stick was giddy as a child when she formed a fish with the water and made it jump out of the water.

The barge was moored to the dock and a wooden plank set out. Wet Stick helped her from the barge and onto the dock.

Londinium had changed for the better. It was livelier, with more merchants and children running in the streets. The hand that'd choked the people's purse and coffers had been lifted. The City's Watch replaced the feared Blacklegs, and petty crime was minimal.

Frida rather enjoyed being back in the city. This was the place that shaped her into who she was. The streets that had led her to Arthur. As soon as the duo stepped onto the street the scent of fresh bread and pies filled the air.

Wet Stick pushed open the door into the storefront. Edwyn rose from his stool by the stone oven, his weight braced on a cane. There was a batch of orange sweet rolls baking. "Tristan, my lad!" The baker exclaimed.

"Ed," Wet Stick greeted but he quickly stepped aside to reveal Frida. She pushed the hood of her cloak back.

"Ida," the baker breathed. Frida embraced the baker, holding him as tightly as she dared to do. When they parted, Edwyn looked over her fair face and frowned. "You've got a thinking look about you," he noted.

Frida looked down at her hands before meeting the baker's gaze again. "I want you to come back with us," she told him.

"The bakery-" he started. Ida shook her head. "You've had it in your mind that you'd work yourself into a grave." That tended to be the way things were in Londinium. People worked themselves to death and then the burden passed on to their child. "You can come stay with Art and I. Please," Ida pleaded with a shaking voice, holding onto his withering hand. "Even you must find time to rest."

There were plenty of other bakeries in the city to make-up for Edwyn's share. He looked around at the bakery. It'd been rebuilt to look identical to the one that had been torched. His entire life had been spent in the bakery. His father had raised him to be a baker, and he had raised Frida to take his place, having no wife nor children of his own.

"I always thought I'd leave this place in your hands one day." A wistful expression crossed his face. His little assistant was the Queen of Camelot in every way but name. He suspected that'd soon change too. "I never would've guessed this is how things would turn out-" his sentence was broken by a bout of coughing "-but I can't say it's not for the better."

* * *

Caradoc met them at the gates of the castle. His expression was grim, and Frida already knew the reason why. She'd seen the quintet Viking boats docked in the lagoon. "They are here," he uttered, not hiding his disdain.

"When did they arrive?" Ida asked. She hated to think that Art may have been stuck in their company for days she was absent.

"In the morning hours," he answered. It was well past midday now.

Ida stepped toward the gates but turned to Wet Stick and Caradoc. Her gaze drifted over to Edwyn. The baker was tired, such a journey had left him weary. He needed rest. "Will you see him to his chambers?"

Both Wet Stick and Caradoc nodded. "Of course," they said at the same time.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

ARTHUR was slumped in the carved throne of Camelot. The crown didn't sit straight on his head and his hand propped up his chin with mild disinterest. Being king wasn't something he enjoyed, but Bedivere had told him that made him even more suited to wear the crown. Earlier, he'd laid out perspective conditions for a treaty and trade. Now the two envoys gathered among the rest of their people to the side of the rotunda, speaking in a tongue Art could not understand.

Percival entered unannounced and quickly stepped aside, revealing Frida. The signs of travel weariness were evident in her dark eyes and hair. Even with her slatternly appearance, there was something regal about the way she held herself. The Viking guests turned from the conversation they'd been having amongst themselves when Arthur rose from the throne.

He kissed her cheek for the sake of decorum and then turned to introduce her to the Northmen. "Leif, son of Harbard." The man that stepped forward was plainly clothed with dark hair pulled back into braids but closely cropped at the sides. "And Katla, daughter of Torstein." She had a round face, hardened by scars and a grim expression with kohl rimmed cold eyes.

Frida stepped forward and offered Katla a small smile, noting the sword on her back and the axe hanging from her hip. "You are a shield-maiden," she surmised, though the Viking currently lacked a shield. Arthur had tried teaching her the art of swordplay but that is not where Ida's skills laid. She admired women that could fight equally among men.

Katla sized Frida up. After hearing tales of Arcanists and Mages, she was disappointed with the woman in front of her. "And you are not," the shield-maiden bit back.

Frida shook her head with a soft smile. "No, I don't fight." Ida was not a fighter. She was a baker's assistant from Londinium. Her hands were crafted to knead dough and shape the surroundings, not for wielding swords, bows, and axes.

"Why not?" Katla asked.

Memories flashed across Ida's memory. A man falling to the ground, his eyes burning black holes, another clawing at his throat as molten copper burned him from the inside. She hadn't even been trying. A soft smile crossed over her delicate, travel-worn features. "Because I could kill everyone," Frida answered. It was not an easy admission. Merlin had shown her the true extent of her powers.

"Doubtful," the Viking woman replied, condescension lacing the word. Appearances were often deceiving, though. If she willed it, Frida could draw the breath from an entire army's lungs without breaking a sweat. The shield-maiden drew her axe and swung. She'd heard rumors of a Mage and Arcanist. Now was her opportunity to see if they were as dangerous as everyone said.

Frida stepped back and lifted her hands. The stone of the floor flowed into a transparent wall. Katla's arm was twisted and immobilized in the glass, leaving her little choice but to drop the axe. Ida kicked the weapon away and lowered the wall with a wave of her hand. The stone floor left unmarred by the sudden transformation.

Percival and Caradoc stepped forward with swords drawn. "Katla!" Leif darted forward and gripped onto her shoulders, pulling her back. The shield-maiden held to her arm as if it had been burned and looked up at Frida in horror.

"That is why I do not fight," Ida reiterated, a certain degree of ruthlessness lacing the words. Arthur was at her side, hand resting on Excalibur. Ida stayed his hand and assured him with a soft look that she was fine.

Art looked between the members of his court as they sheathed their swords and finally to the Northmen. "Supper will be delivered to your rooms. We will speak more on the morrow." He wrapped his arm around Ida's shoulders and led her from the room.

* * *

Ida looked into the flames. In them she saw dancers, flickering back and forth and jumping in the breeze. "Why have enemies when we can have friends?" She asked, echoing the same question he'd once spoken.

Arthur stopped pacing and turned to Frida. "Using my words against me?" He queried.

She smiled. "I'm not hurt, Art," Frida stated, holding out her arms so he could see for himself. There wasn't even a scratch. She'd mastered her arcane powers and was far more dangerous and skilled than anyone with a sword or axe.

He stepped forward and took her hands into his, drawing her closer. "That doesn't change the fact that she attacked you,"

" _Tried_ to attack me," she amended. There was a subtle difference between the two statements. Katla had tried but had not succeeded. Arthur rolled his eyes at her overweening remark.

"How can I let these people become part of this brotherhood if I cannot trust them?" Arthur asked, slumping in a chair at the table before the hearth. He wanted a successful trade deal and an alliance between England and the North. After what'd just happened, he doubted if they could ever be trustworthy enough to hold a position at the Round Table.

Frida stepped up behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward. "Time," she answered. He looked up with a soft frown at the cryptic response. "Let time be the determiner." Arthur drew her around to him and pulled her across his lap.

"Their people have good intentions," she continued, fingers brushing through the coarse hair on his chin, "if we send them back then it may create animosity." Art's jaw clenched. Ida had a knack for being right, even before he'd come into a crown. That's why she was his closest advisor and had been for a long while.

"How is Edwyn?" He finally asked, temper subsiding.

"Wet Stick said he's resting." Even traveling by river barge had taken its toll on the old baker. But Edwyn was home now. He could rest and bake and do whatever he pleased with no worries about profit or payments.

Ida rose and undid the pins in her hair. Soon after, she began untying the laces of her bodice. "I'm going to bathe," Ida announced. Arthur crossed his arms and nodded. She looked over her shoulder. "Will you be joining me?" Then he was taking his shirt and boots off in haste to follow her into the washroom.

* * *

Arthur knelt at her bedside and shook her shoulder. "Ida? Darlin'." It was late, but now was the moment his hidden ploy would come to fruition. She rolled over and groaned, mumbling something unintelligible beneath her breath. He nudged her shoulder again, and this time her eyes popped open.

Frida sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She placed her hand in his and followed him without question. "It's late, Art," she complained, bare feet shuffling along on the cool stone. The castle was quiet. Even the burning sconces had almost been extinguished.

"I know," he whispered, "but I don't want to wait any longer."

Her brows settled in a deep furrow. Then she remembered the state of her undress. It was not proper to be seen only in one's bedrobes. "I'm not decent," Frida uttered, pulling her hand from his and crossing her arms.

"You're wearing white, though," he noted. Frida stopped and bit down on her bottom lip, unsure what to make of this late night escapade. Art cradled her face in his hands and smiled. "You're lovely, Ida. No matter what you're wearing." He offered his hand again. She slid her fingers through his and went where he led.

The garden had been decorated. Candles lined the cobbled path and hung from lanterns in the trees. Strands of crystal and white flowers had been strung from the low branches of the apple tree, now bare of fruit and leaves. The sight was enough to bring tears to her eyes. Everything was so beautiful and perfect.

Blue was standing next to Wet Stick and Bedivere. He held two silver rings on a piece of dark cloth in his hands. Edwyn was wrapped in a warm cloak, sitting on a stone bench. Goosefat Bill stood at his side with a reassuring hand on the old baker's shoulder. Percy and Caradoc were there too. There was no point in a large ceremony when most accepted her position at the king's side.

Arthur took her into his arms beneath the apple tree. Bedivere stepped before them and motioned to Blue to come as well. Frida took the ring from the boy and repeated the words after Bedivere with her heart pounding in her throat. "With this ring I take you-" she slipped the silver band onto his finger "-Arthur Pendragon as my husband from now until the end of time."

He beamed and for a moment all his worries vanished. Blue held out the second ring. It was delicate, with etched leaves and flowers in the silver. "With this ring I take you-" Arthur slid the band onto her left ring finger, eyes trailing from her delicate hand upward. Caradoc pushed a small silver diadem forward. Art took the headpiece and set it upon her brow "-and crown you, Frida, Queen of England and of my heart, now and always."

The title suited her. As did a crown.

"It is done," Bedivere announced to the small gathering, "you are Queen and King now. Man and wife. Seal your love with a kiss." Two orphans given a chance to thrive had ascended to the seat of power in the world. Another chapter in the legend being forged.

The lantern-light made her dark eyes twinkle. Arthur found himself lost in her soft gaze. The back of fingers brushed over her cheek. Wet Stick nudged Art in the side, breaking him from the trance. He swooped down and pressed his lips to hers, his queen.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

ARTHUR rose from his seat at the head of the table and leaned forward toward the Viking envoys. Katla met the King's harsh gaze and felt the colors of ignominy and dishonor rise to her cheeks. "You assaulted my queen. You should count yourself lucky to still be breathing."

Their guests adverted their gaze to Ida. She sat upon the throne, overseeing the meeting with a diadem resting on her brow. Art glanced over his shoulder to Frida. She met his gaze and offered a subtle nod. "But the Queen is a gracious and forgiving woman and despite the prior transgression she has agreed to offer you a seat at the Table." The relief of the Viking envoys was tangible upon those words.

Bedivere rose from his seat and came to stand at Arthur's side, unrolling a piece of parchment. "Now that has been resolved we may begin the next order of business," the old knight said, smiling.

* * *

Frida propped her chin up on Art's shoulder. It was the end of another peaceful day. Soon though, the spring festival would be upon them and the summer trading season after. They would long for these slow days when councils and meetings lasted for hours at a time. He rubbed her back and turned his head to breathe in the soft floral scent of her hair, mixed with cinnamon and thyme. She'd been in the kitchens.

Tristan pushed open their chamber doors, not bothering to knock. He glanced between both of them but settled his gaze on Frida. "You better come quick." She was out the door running before Art could even pull a shirt on again.

He'd told her Laudine didn't think Edwyn would last through the night. Each time a sickness plagued him, it grew more severe. The winter fever that had taken hold of him almost had not let him from its grasp. Wet Stick pushed open the doors of Edwyn's chambers.

The old baker was nestled in layers of fur, despite the large fire roaring in the hearth. Frida sat at his bedside, taking his withered, cold hand. She knew this day had long been coming, but it felt too soon. It would always be too soon.

"Edwyn?" She managed his name in a hoarse whisper, heart beating in her throat. Not even two days ago he had been in the kitchens with her, dipping sweet rolls and sprinkling salt on pretzels. Their roles had switched since she had first begun helping in the bakery.

"My dearest," he breathed, voice airy and soft. Tears gathered in her eyes. It took much of his strength to lift his hand to brush away the dampness from her dark eyes. "No tears, Ida-" Edwyn forced a smile "-no tears for a dying old man." Even he knew this time was different.

She just shook her head, unable to stop the tears. "You were my joy," Edwyn told her. He always thought it was fate that led a small girl with bloody feet into his life -less than a month after his wife and unborn son died of fever. He never had the chance to raise his own child, but Frida gave him that opportunity and he loved her for it.

"It's okay-" Edwyn reached for her other hand "-you can let me go." It didn't seem fair that he was the one offering consolation whilst drawing his final breaths. She wanted to be strong for him, but strength slipped through her fingers like water and silk.

"But I don't want to," Frida cried, feeling more like the young homeless girl walking aimlessly through the streets of Londinium than a woman.

Edwyn squeezed her hands, but then he grew still and silent. Laudine came from the shadows and pressed her fingers against his neck. She waited but soon looked at Frida and shook her head. The old baker was already gone.

"No!" She seized a fistful of fur and buried her face into the bed. The room exploded with small bursts of light and shocks of energy with her cry. Laudine cowered back, afraid of what the queen was capable of in her grief and agony. She could destroy the castle without meaning to.

Arthur laid his hand on Ida's shoulder, undeterred by the power seeping from her being. At his touch everything stilled. She turned and pressed her face into his abdomen, weeping for the loss of her true father. He held her tight.

* * *

The Vikings buried their warriors and honorable dead in pyre ships. Though not a warrior, Frida decided the old baker deserved such a spectacle. Leif had offered the smallest of their ship to serve for the purpose, but the queen politely declined. She would craft her own ship for Edwyn.

Beside the river was a young elm sapling, too twisted to grow. It wouldn't last another winter. Ida laid her hands upon the bark and began to sing, willing the tree to do her bidding. The elm answered her by growing taller and wider, though its trunk and branches remained twisted and uneven.

Art watched from afar, still bewildered by the power Frida possessed. She could speak softly to a mountain, and it would fall at her feet. He had witnessed her turning stone to water and the air into tiny gems. Tristan and Blue joined him on a hill and observed an Arcanist at work.

All it took was a smooth wave of her arm, and the tree was felled. Upturned by the roots. Now large enough to be cut for wood, yet this endeavor was still incomplete. No ax nor saw need touch the tree to make a ship. The elm bent to her will like parchment. The scraggy roots became an ornamented bow, the branches curved backward at the stern and within the wide trunk was a depression large enough for a body and trinkets.

Now finished, Frida stepped back and sank to her knees. Exhausted and crying once more. The heavens opened up and down fell a cold rain, echoing her pain.

By the time Ida returned to the castle, she was shivering and covered in mud. Arthur quickly called for a warm bath to be drawn and swathed her in a woolen blanket after riding her of the soaked dress and slippers.

One of the orphaned girls nearing womanhood had asked to be Frida's lady-in-waiting. At first, she was hesitant about appointing Helga or any of the children to positions akin to thralldom, but she had accepted the girl's request. Helga worked a pearl and shell comb through the knots created by two days of neglect before smoothing rose oil over Ida's dark hair.

For the first time in her life, Frida wore a black dress. It had a high neck and long sleeves. Her hair -a dark, damp veil- fell to her waist. She wore no jewels, no crown, only her grief. Arthur believed there was something haunting about how beautiful she looked. He took her to the docks -where Edwyn's corpse had been laid in the elm ship.

She stepped into the dying light of the day and stopped. Hundreds were present. All of Camelot must have gathered at the docks to pay homage, to offer condolences and support to the queen in this time of hardship.

They parted, creating a path leading to the dock. Bedivere, William, and Percival stood on the right edge of the dock, each holding a torch aloft. On the left stood Caradoc, Gwaine, and Galahad. Tristan stood in the center and passed his torch to Arthur. Ida passed by them all in silence.

The old baker was dressed in his finest robes, at rest in the small ship she had crafted. Frida kissed Edwyn's brow for a final time before laying her hands upon the rough ship and igniting it. Before the flames dwindled, many had gone. Arthur held her close as the flames reached up into the night.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

"BLUE!" The boy stopped in his tracks before leaving the kitchens. He was reaching his fifteenth nameday but was still training under Arthur and Caradoc with sword and shield. She tossed a warm roll to him, smiling. No one ever became a sword-master on an empty stomach. He grinned, took a large bite from the roll and waved to Frida as he went on. Blunted training sword resting on his shoulder.

Leif and Katla took new names upon being inducted into King Arthur's court. Lionel and Kay. Trade and peace with the Northmen had never come into question since they had been knighted. Now only one seat at the Round Table remained.

Frida and Arthur had discussed who should take the final seat often. Pellinor of Listenoise or Cynric of Wessex both were allies and friends of Camelot and had sons that could be knighted. But choosing the son of one king over another would be walking a thin line between war and peace.

Recently they both came to agree that Blue should take it when he came of age. Art had taken him as a ward -and in truth, as a son. The twelfth and final seat of the Round Table would go to Hector on his eighteenth nameday.

"Never thought I'd see a queen working in the kitchens," Isolde observed. Her own lady mother would have never stepped foot in the kitchens of the keep, let own stoop to such a level to cook or clean. There were chores that Isolde's mother felt were beneath her position and her daughter's. She wondered if her mother would have to gall to speak out against the Queen of England.

Frida glanced up and dipped her hands into a basket of flour, beginning to knead a crust for a pie. Fresh apples had come from the orchard and there was no better way to celebrate than with hand pies and dumplings.

Isolde was betrothed to Tristan. A fair maiden from Cornwall who had arrived less than a fortnight ago. She was kind and meek and had spent most of the days keeping to herself. "I was raised by a baker in Londinium," Ida explained. The wound left by Edwyn's passing had healed, but there came moments where she missed him terribly and it felt as though the wound would reopen. This was one of those moments.

"The stories are true then," Isolde smiled. She'd heard tales that Arthur had been raised in a brothel and on the streets and his arcanist queen was but a humble baker. She hadn't quite believed them until now –Ida appeared far more comfortable in the kitchens than sitting on a throne.

"How has your time been in Camelot thus far?" Frida asked, wiping her hands on a stained apron before reaching for a rolling dowel.

"Oh-" the question had caught her off guard "-the people are very kind." Camelot was different from Cornwall, but the smallfolk were almost the same. They could always spare a smile when she passed through the streets. Isolde enjoyed the castle grounds and countryside too, especially given the freedom to roam at her leisure. Given time, Camlet could become her home.

"And Tristan?" Ida asked. Wet Stick had been hesitant at first. He was a street rat -just like Arthur- and his upbringing was still reflected in his actions. Something he worried would offend a proper lady, even if he was a knight now.

Isolde flushed, gaze flicking to the stone floor. "He's been very good to me."

Ida smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

* * *

Children trailed behind Frida wherever she went outside of the castle walls. They all wanted to see magic. After tending to several errands and meeting with Gwaine and Galahad, she went down to the lower city.

Boys and girls surrounded her in the street. Ida raised her hand, let a buzzing purple light dance on her fingertips before it disappeared –transforming into a bouquet of flowers. Then she tossed the flowers high into the air, turning them to snow as they rained from the sky. It was a trivial way to use her abilities, but she loved seeing the smiles and looks of awe.

Arthur emerged from one of the taverns and paused when he saw the main square filled with children, Ida standing the center. He crossed his arms and leaned against a crumbling stone column from a bygone time.

Seeing her with children always made his heart swell with warmth –and a certain degree of sorrow. There had been once where they both thought it was possible. Something had changed, and the physician confirmed their suspicions though advised concern for the queen. The dream faded quickly in blood. Bedivere and Goosefat expressed condolences and then unease in regards to the line of succession. Frida and Arthur, with the support of the Round Table, appointed Blue as heir to the Throne of England.

Frida spun, lifting her arms to the sky and pulled butterflies of all sizes and colors from the air. Arthur bit down on his lip –trying to hide his wide smile. They locked onto one another in the crowd. Ida pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear and offered a diffident smile before returning her attention to the excited boys and girls.

* * *

Arthur rolled onto his side, gaze locked onto Frida as she read over a letter to the lords of Wessex. The winter festival was fast approaching and this time, she wished to invite more than just the nobles and knights of Camelot. Wisps of dark hair escaped from her braid and the warmth of the room made her cheeks flush a soft shade of pink. "Ida," Art called, drawing her attention away from the drafted invitation.

"What is it?" Ida asked in return.

"You're perfect," he answered, rising to his feet. Arthur kissed the top of her head, then the patch of skin exposed on her shoulder. Frida rolled her eyes. "Just speakin' the truth," he remarked, shrugging. Ida tugged on one of his belt loops and tilted her chin up. He accepted her cheeky invitation and leaned down –her lips soft as rose petals with the faintest hint of lingering honey.

Art rummaged in one of the wardrobes, finding a wooden chessboard and a box of pieces. He returned to the table and pushed the papers and books to the side, setting up the game. It had been a while since they'd last played.

"You enjoy losing, don't you?" Ida asked. He'd never beaten her, not even when he tried to distract her, swapping pieces or moving a pawn one space too far. Art had even tried distracting her by more perverse means once or twice –those times his defeat had been even more embarrassing.

He pushed forward a black pawn, letting the match begin. "Only to you, love," he mused with a lopsided, boyish smile.

Just as the times before, she took his pawns, knights, rooks, and bishops. One by one his pieces fell until the only four pieces on the board were Frida's king and queen and Arthur's king and rook. He moved his rook into position and then Frida pushed her queen forward to prevent his check, smiling. "Queen saves the King, " she remarked. Art leaned back and smiled –she had, more times than she would ever know.


End file.
